


Back from the dead, but not alive.

by Lizzie1498



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Comfort, Friendship, Hurt, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:05:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 27
Words: 57,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzie1498/pseuds/Lizzie1498
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This takes place four years after the fall, Where Sherlock committed suicide. John pesters Sherlock to find out, what actually happened in those four years, a touchy subject that makes Sherlock cringe. Rated M for language and content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Honey, I'm Home.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just saying: I OWN ABSOLUTELY NOTHING! CHARACTERS BELONG TO BBC. I only messed with the plot! :3

It has been four years since the day John last saw his best friend, Four years since the day he jumped. Four excruciatingly long, painful years, that made John's life a living hell. He had no one, even Mycroft had stopped pestering him, there was no need. Mrs. Hudson was his only company in these dark days, every day at four P.M. She would come up the stairs and share a cup of tea with him in silence. When she would leave with the tray he would stare out the window and remember. He remembered all of the cases he had solved with Sherlock. He remembered him entering covered in blood of a pig with a harpoon in his hand, and smiling, that stupid smile is what he missed the most, along with the baritone chuckle that rarely escaped the Detective's lips. He remembered how extraordinary Sherlock was, how brilliant his mind was. And He remembered the terrible day when that brain was strewn across the sidewalk, how he looked on to that dreadful roof and saw his best friend standing looking at him. He remembered the lump form in his throat and his eyes become warm with prickling tears as he watched his best friend dive, flailing wildly and hitting the ground with a sickening crunch. He remembered the feeling of a hundred bullets in his chest as he saw the blood pooling around that curly mop of hair. He remembered looking into those icy unseeing, calculating eyes and crying over the body of his best friend.

John took a deep breath, this has been his life, everyday, for four years. And he prayed everyday it would end.

A knocking came from the door, John stood and stretched his tired old bones as he made his way to the door. It wasn't Mrs. Hudson, she went out to the shop. Is Mycroft back to bother him some more? He reached for the hand gun on the arm rest of the chair and held it out of sight behind his back, just in case. The knocking became more insistent, growing louder and faster, like a drum roll.

"What ever you are selling I am not interested!" The knocking didn't cease.

"Mycroft? What do you want?" It wouldn't stop.

"Fine! Alright! I am coming! What the Hell-" John's mouth practically unhinged as he saw the Ghost of Sherlock Holmes in the door way, it had to be a ghost.

"I bought home the milk this time, John." Sure enough, in his hands sat a bottle of milk, still dripping with condensation.

"Sh- Sher- What?! How?! What!?" John gaped and looked the man up and down.

"It's Sherlock, Don't you remember?" And there it was, that stupid smile again.

John reached out with a trembling hand and recoiled when he touched the cloth of Sherlock's shirt. It was him. He was here, alive, in front of him. Then he leaned back and with all his might punched him in the jaw, with his other hand he grabbed the Detective by the throat, bought him closer and jabbed him in the ribs over and over again until he felt a crunch against his coiled fist. And it felt good. The force of the last punch was enough to send both men tumbling backwards head over heels until they reached the bottom of the staircase with John straddling the Detective. John lifted a final fist over his head and delivered one last blow to the Detective's nose with a crunch.

"YOU STUPID BASTARD! FOUR YEARS OF HELL YOU GAVE ME! FOUR FUCKING YEARS! YOU BASTARD! DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU PUT ME THROUGH! SHUT UP DON'T ANSWER THAT! DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID TO ME! How much I've missed you!" He picked the Detective up by the collar and pulled his arms around him tightly, still sitting on the dusty floor.

"Having a bad day, Doctor?" Sherlock breathed shakily into John's hair.

"I've missed you so much." He stood and helped the wobbly Detective to his feet, still keeping a tight grip on him for fear of him falling.

"Where have you been! All these years? Where were you-" John stopped when he noticed Sherlock tense, and if he wasn't mistaken, he saw tears in the Detective's cold gaze.

"Come on, let's get you upstairs, you look terrible." John wrapped an arm around the Detective's waist and helped him up the stairs and to the couch where he left Sherlock to fetch the first aid kit.

John returned and began to dab Sherlock's bleeding nose and mouth with a damp cloth.

"Your nose is broken, I'll fix that up in a moment."John placed his thumbs on either side of the crooked nose and on a count of three gave a hard squeeze, settling the bones back in place with a pop. Sherlock squealed and jerked his head back in pain smacking it against the wall behind him.

"Ow! Fuck!" He ran a hand through his black curls and rocked himself on the couch. John chuckled lightly and put the first aid kit back inside the cabinet.

"Take off your shirt." John entered the living room and smiled, still unable to believe who sat in front of him.

"Oh, I see, you broke my ribs just so you can see me shirtless, good plan." Sherlock lay himself down and pulled the blood stained shirt up and over his head, rolling it up he placed it under his neck.

John snorted as he bent over the Detective and placed his hand on the black and purple bruise that stretched across his right side and pressed, Sherlock growled deep in his throat and bit his lip.

"A few small fractures, not much to do, just sleep on your right side tonight." John gave a rough slap on Sherlock's side, sending a wave of pain over him again.

"Glad to be home again..." Sherlock gave a weak smile at his best friend. His. Best Friend.


	2. What happened?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to pry information from Sherlock, where was he these four years. And what are those scars covering his body?

Sherlock had fallen asleep on the couch that was too short for his spindly legs. He woke up to the smell of tea brewing and rubbed his aching neck as he attempted to sit up, but was knocked onto his back from the pain in his ribs. He placed a thin hand on his side and attempted to rub the pain from his bones.

"John! John!!!! Damn it John!" Sherlock tried with all his might to sit up, but to no avail, he lay on his back like a turtle flailing its limbs uselessly. 

"Sher- Oh God!" John broke down in laughter, doubling over, as Sherlock tried to compose himself. "Stay right there, don't move! I'll fetch the camera!"

"John, Please!" Sherlock's voice broke, as he lay limp on the couch. 

John stopped laughing immediately, his breathing stopped entirely as he watched Sherlock with horror, Sherlock? Vulnerable?

"Sherlock, I was just...Playing, it was a joke..." John walked over to the couch and held out his hands to help him up.

"Well, it's not funny, it's humiliating." Sherlock grasped John's small hands and pulled himself up right with a painful growl, he sighed inwardly as he dropped his head into his hands. John stood in front of Sherlock and shook his head.

"What has happened to you?! Sherlock!" John shouted and knelt in front of the detective and grabbed his wrists, attempting to look at his face. Sherlock snatched his hands away and dropped his head back down.

"Sherlock," John continued much more gently than before, "Please, can you tell me what has been going on, I want to help you. Sherlock, I am your best friend, your only friend! You can tell me anything!" Sherlock slowly lifted his gaze until his eyes met John's.

"John, I, I-I can't!! I just c-can't!" Then tears began to well in the cold eyes and fell, staining his cheek. Sherlock trembled, crying silently, his sobbing grew louder as John wrapped his arms around the thin Detective and did his best to console the man.

"Hey! Hey, Sherlock, shh, sssshhhh! Take it easy!! Sherlock, please! This isn't like you! Calm down, take a breath." John's own breath caught in his lungs as Sherlock began to sob even louder.

"Sherlock! For God's sake take it easy!!! You will scare the neighborhood!" John gasped as his fingers brushed over Sherlock's bare back and felt ridges up and down his back that could only come from a whip. Sherlock shivered as John's fingers grazed his tender skin.

"What are these marks! Sherlock!" John pulled away and looked Sherlock in his blood shot eyes, those fragile eyes that widened in fear. 

"N-nothing, I-I-It's nothing, J-John." Sherlock wiped his eyes with his trembling hands and gulped for air. John pulled the Detective to his feet and spun him around and caught a glimpse of the disfigured back before Sherlock spun back around hiding himself from John.

"Turn around, Sherlock." John became stern, this has gone on far enough. He took a step toward the Detective who backed himself to the wall. John having grown stronger over the last four years easily spun the much thinner Detective around and held him by the scuff of his neck against the wall, allowing him to examine the scars.

Sherlock screamed.

John placed his other hand against Sherlock's back and attempted to hold him still as he beat his fists on the walls and kicked ferociously, screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Let me go!!! Get off of me!!!!!Stop it!!!!" Sherlock's crying grew past hysteria to where he could barely breathe. John, in fear of the neighbor's calling the police clamped his hand over Sherlock's mouth and with his arm locking him in a headlock dragged him backwards into the kitchen. He bent the Detective over the counter to maintain control with his hand on the back of the Detective's neck as he searched the fridge for a vial of sedative with the other hand. He unscrewed the cap with his thumb and let it fall to the floor, he lifted Sherlock who thrashed around so wildly both men were knocked off their feet with Sherlock landing on his back, on top of John. John took the opportunity to wrap his legs around Sherlock's to stop the kicking and with a hand under the Detective's chin, tilted his head back and forced the liquid down his throat. The Doctor tossed the vial to the side and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, patting him gently to console his friend.

Sherlock's screaming slowly ceased and was replaced by an uneven breathing as he fought against the drugs, his movements slowed and soon stopped struggling against John all together. John sighed when the Detective's eyes fluttered, rolled back and his body fell limp in his arms.

With a few shaky breaths, John combed a few black curls out of his face and stared down at his broken friend.

"What happened to you? Oh, God, What the hell happened to you." 

 

 

*Please tell me what you think!!!!Thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoy! ~Lizzie*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! I love to read your comments, good and bad! Please tel me if I make a mistake or if I say things twice, I wrote this chapter and the previous one...at 4 in the morning.... XD


	3. Tell me, Please.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets an old friend who has shocking news on his detective.... 
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: I OWN NOTHING! ALL CHARACTERS AND JUNK BELONGS TO BBC.

John sat in his chair staring out of the window with so much running through his head over and over about the events that had took place that morning.

Sherlock the emotionless rock of a man, nothing could phase him. For God's sake he got a kick out of murders, he stared at dead bodies, worked with disgusting slime of human kind. And he never batted an eyelash.

So what on Earth, broke Sherlock Holmes?

This disturbed John greatly, for he knew what it was to be traumatized. To feel helpless and alone and afraid all the time. He had seen his best friends gunned down in cold blood in front of his eyes. He used their dead bodies as sandbags. He knew mental and emotional pain and definetly physical, but Sherlock was the kind of man that would laugh in the face of the Devil. John even doubted how much Sherlock would care if he himself had died. He quickly pushed the thought from his mind and began to focus again.

He had no idea on how he could help his friend, he sighed loudly, feeling useless, just as he did when he was a soldier.

A rustling was heard from Sherlock's room, John had easily picked up the unconscious Detective and placed him on his old bed. He had taken the opportunity to turn Sherlock onto his stomach and examine the scars on his back. John ran his fingers down the pale spine, a labyrinth of countless whip marks lay strewn across the once flawless skin. Most were old but many looked recent, some within the week. The ex-soldier grimaced when he saw the bruise on the Detective's side that he had inflicted and immediately regretted it. He looked at his friend differently now, he was no longer mysterious, cold, brave Sherlock.

He was a ghost, the day he had jumped off the building he died. His body may have walked away somehow, but Sherlock was gone. A new man lay shivering on the bed, a frightened, vulnerable and violent apparition. John pulled a blanket over his friend's mutilated shoulders and silently backed out of the room. The door closed with a soft click and the Doctor made his way to the sofa to collect the bloody shirt and throw it in the hamper. He stood in the living room unsure of what to do.

Sherlock had thinned down over the four years, how that was even possible he didn't know, but the sedative was for a man of 200 pounds and would last at least an hour. On Sherlock's 140 pound body it would last much longer, giving John enough time to get some answers. He swiftly donned his coat, ran down the stairs two at a time and out the door, he wasn't even out of breath. Over the four years, John had wasted his time by going for runs, an awful lot of running had slimmed him down and toned his muscle immensely. Of the pair, he was the more fit now, and it angered him more as to what had they done to Sherlock.

He walked through the crowds and thought to himself,

Sherlock is not one to break over physical pain, there had to be something more that happened that caused him to act this way. There was definetly much physical pain involved but there is no way to measure mental or emotional scars without speaking to the victim directly. It was nearly impossible for the Doctor to diagnose his patient with nothing to inspect.

He had been so lost in his thoughts he didn't notice the sleek black car pull up beside him until the driver tapped the horn.

John flinched in surprise but immediately recovered and slid into the back seat. 

He wanted to punch who he sat next to.

 

“Hello, Mycroft.” John composed himself.

“Hello, John.” Mycroft reached under his seat and withdrew a very thick manila folder which clearly had been opened and handled often.

“I thought you would be interested in my little brother.” Mycroft still held the folder in his hands.

“How long have you known.” John prided himself on how cold his voice sounded.

“Since the day he hit the concrete. He told me not to tell you, to keep it a secret.”

“Well, how did he do it then? How did he break his neck, shatter his skull and walk away?” John challenged Mycroft.

“A magician never reveals his secrets, even I don't know John, He wouldn't tell me.” Mycroft gave a half smile before carefully opening the tab on the folder and handing it to John.

“These are the pictures, documents and digital recordings of Sherlock's life for the past four years. I will warn you, they are extremely graphic, and I beg of you to not let him see it or know that I gave it to you.”

“I promise, I will be careful.” John slipped his hand inside the folder and pulled out a stack of smaller folders. He took a deep breath, not realizing he had been holding it. He hesitated, should he glimpse into this, this was Sherlock's personal information, did he have a right to invade his privacy after all these people before him had already ruffled through his memories. With another deep breath and a trembling hand he opened the first folder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE REVIEW!!!!!!! <3 ~Lizzie


	4. Get inside, John.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Once again. I own nothing..  
> Still rated T, the bad stuff hasn't even happened yet.

On the top right hand corner of the page was a date, approximately a week after the jump. On the lines below John read:

Name: Sherlock Holmes

Age: 36

Height: 6'

Weight: 180 lbs

Eye color: Light blue/green

Overall health: Excellent

 

“I don't understand? Was he abducted by Doctors?” John looked up at Mycroft, utterly confused.

“His captors kept a very close eye on his physical details. Keep reading.” Mycroft settled uncomfortably into the leather seat.

 

John's eyes scanned page after page, each dated the day after the one previous. But slowly and surely his physicals became worse and worse, his health diminishing. Below the physical statistics were comments about him overall, most concerning his behavior. John let a smile come to his lips briefly as he read the comments.

 

Unwilling to cooperate. Hasn't spoken in days. Punched one of the handlers.

 

“Handlers?” John glanced back at Mycroft.

 

“The names the captors gave themselves.” Mycroft nodded grimly.

 

“They are speaking as if he was an animal.” John clenched his jaw in anger before realizing there was a backside to each of these documents.

 

And on the back was list of “procedures” that had been performed on Sherlock that day, accompanied by a picture.

 

John did his best not to gape, or cry or scream as he gently shuffled through the pictures. He started with the first day.

 

Sherlock was sitting in the corner of a dark room with his arms shackled up and over his head to the wall, his legs were bound tightly together with duct tape. A knotted bloody rag was stuffed in his mouth, warm crimson blood ran down his bare chest from his nostrils that flared in pain. He stared at the person behind the camera with a rage that blazed behind his bruised and swollen eyes.

 

John brought a trembling hand to his mouth, he blinked hard several times to push back the tears that were threatening to fall.

 

“John, Don't be ashamed that you have feelings.” Mycroft placed a comforting hand on the Doctor's shoulder.

 

John forced himself to look away from the photo and to read the “procedures” below:

 

1\. Beating. (12 noon-1 P.M.)

 

End of first session.

The Doctor quickly rustled through the documents staring in horror at the “progress” made each day as the handlers called it.

 

Sherlock's body atrophied and bloodied with every session that grew agonizingly longer and harder to endure. The handlers became creative with their forms of torture and ways to abuse his friend’s body.

 

He reached for the second folder, which held the second month’s documents and saw on the back of the first page, Sherlock. This time he was standing up, wearing only his boxers. The Detective was facing the wall his hands shackled so high above his head he was suspended off the ground, his feet dangling uselessly a foot above the ground. Blood oozed down his arms from his wrists, the skin under the shackles torn away leaving raw muscle from struggling against his bindings. His curly black hair laid in a tangled mess on his bowed bleeding head. His thin shoulders were laced with blood, and more rained down his mutilated skin. 

 

John hissed through his teeth at what he saw, his best friend humiliated and enduring great physical pain. But even torture would not be enough to turn Sherlock into the man he had witnessed that morning.

 

“Mycroft.” John’s voice had sounded much weaker than he had hoped. “This, no matter how disgusting, would not make Sherlock behave the way he did? What else had happened?”

 

Mycroft leaned forward and whispered. “That’s what the videos are for.”

 

The car came to a sudden halt, directly outside 221B Baker street.

 

“Thank you, Mycroft.” John stuffed the documents back into the folder and stepped out.

 

“Just take care of my baby Brother, please, use this information to help him.” Mycroft leaned back in his seat with a sigh.

 

“Will do, Good bye.” The door closed and John turned on his heels, hugging the folder to his chest and stared at the wooden door. 221B Baker St. Here we go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review!!!!!! <3 ~Lizzie


	5. A broken man.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John presents Sherlock with a deal.
> 
>  
> 
> I still own nothing! >:(

John walked up to the door and snatched the little note flapping under the knocker. 

At my sister’s house for the week, I filled your fridge. You’re welcome.

945-2467 (just in case) 

Mrs. Hudson

John smiled at the kindness of that old woman, then remembered that an unconscious, supposedly dead man was upstairs. The soldier sprinted up the stairs, easily bounding three at a time till he reached the top, his heart pounded in his chest as he slowly unlocked the door and stepped inside the flat.

“Sherlock!” John shouted only to hear a loud thump and a yelp answer him.

“Sherlock! Are you all right!” John tossed the folder onto his chair and ran to the Detective’s bedroom, flinging the wooden door open he found a soaked with sweat Sherlock tangled in the damp blankets half way on the floor, with one of his twiggy legs still tied to the bed by the matted bedding.

“Just help me, you idiot.” Sherlock squirmed and yanked his limbs around wildly.

“I’m the idiot? “ John placed his hands on his hips.

“Well, obviously you and your normal brain, you may use a maximum of 9% of your full potential.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed inwardly.

“I have escaped labyrinths filled to the brim with toxic fumes without the aid of a gas mask. And you cannot break free of a few sheets?” John bit his lip to control his giggles.

“It is incredibly good linen.” Sherlock mumbled with his Grown-man-acting-like-a-toddler pout

John held his abdomen as a series of involuntary, undignified snorts flew from his mouth. As soon as he believed he had control of himself, just a simple look at the cocooned man sent him into another fit. All the while, Sherlock wriggled and cursed in an attempt to free his arms plastered to his sides. By this time, John lay on his side on the floor begging Sherlock to stop fidgeting.

“It isn't funny John! You have a terrible sense of humor.” Sherlock neglected to see the position he was in, literally. His right leg was still pinned to the mattress behind him, causing his left leg to curl up underneath his chest, practically touching his chin. He laid his head on the floor in exasperation forcing his non-existent rump high in the air.

When John was able to breathe again he stumbled to his feet and turned to help his friend only to hit the ground again with a shriek of laughter.

“How the- what-are you?-Oh God-Sherlock-please, begging-you-this-HURTS-IT-HURTS-SO-BAD.”

“Damn it, man, pull yourself together and help me!!” Sherlock gave a final grunt.

John turned onto his stomach and crawled out of the room into the kitchen, he then used the counter to support his weight and rifled through the drawers for a pair of scissors. He shakily walked back into the room snipping the scissors rapidly.

Sherlock tensed at the sound of metal against metal but forced himself to control his shallow breathing.

John wiped the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. 

“Oh, God! Why didn't you tell me you couldn't breathe!?” Immediately sober, John knelt down and slid one of the blades of the scissors gently under the sheets. When he closed the scissors it clamped uselessly against the sheets.

“Hold on one moment!” John scurried back into the kitchen and returned with a butchers knife, scalpel and razor blade in his hand.

Sherlock wiggled madly.

“Not again, buddy. Just stay still.” John placed a knee on Sherlock’s shoulder blade, pinning him to the floor, the Doctor dug his knee even deeper crushing a hiss out of the Detective.

“Look, Sherlock, I don’t know what happened to you over the years, but it’s over. So please, stay still.” John placed down the tools except for the butcher knife. Sherlock turned his face away from John and held his breath. John slid the dull end on the blade under the sheet, turned the handle and began to saw upward, he purposely worked slowly so Sherlock wouldn't become too nervous. He felt Sherlock trembling under his hands as the cold blade slid back and forth against his skin.

“You are allowed to breathe you know.” John gave the Detective a nudge, he let out a sharp exhale and inhaled slowly.

“How the hell did you manage all this anyway?” John joked, trying to make his friend feel comfortable.

John saw Sherlock’s Adam’s apple dip from a hard swallow before he said, “Nightmare.”

John stopped sawing, “It helps if you talk about it, you could tell me if you’d like.” He continued slicing away.

Sherlock sighed shallowly debating if he should speak about it. He has never told anyone about his nightmares, or his life in general. He thought that no one would be interested, but here his best friend was asking him. But should anyone but him and the people involved know what has been done to him. Bu it was John, his best friend, the only person he trusted, even above himself. John would never hurt him, well, apart from the multiple times he has beaten him in frustration, but never with hate in his heart. Himself, however, had tried so many times to take his own life, simply out of boredom. So with a final sigh he decided.

“I was in the cage again, “ John stared shocked, he didn't think Sherlock would actually tell him.

“It was dark, and cold, excruciatingly cold. I was bound, blinded and gagged, but I sensed another presence in the room, so I called out. There was no answer, except for a blow to the head. Suddenly I was able to see, when I looked up-“ Sherlock paused and inhaled a shaky breath, John had stopped cutting and sat down next to Sherlock, who still lay on his stomach.

“I saw-I-the man-It-i-was-“ Sherlock sucked in a painful hiss. John Patted him on the shoulder gently.

“Tell me, who was the man?” John whispered calmly.

Sherlock blinked hard. 

“It was my Father.” 

John was taken aback; out of everything he did not expect that. He was shocked, with no idea on how to comment, so with one last slice he freed the Detective from his bindings, he just had to untie his foot. Sherlock took in a deep breath of air and stretched his arms.

“Well, it was just a nightmare, don’t worry about it.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right, at least this once.” Sherlock ruffled his flattened curls.

“I am always right.”

John, without realizing his mistake while making, it regretted it as soon as he did it, in a playful way he had slapped the tied Detective on the bum.

Sherlock had not thought of it as playful, the simple innocent act had sent him spiraling down traumatizing memories of his adolescence. With his Father threatening him from a young age, he had no choice, forced to perform acts against his will, to the man he was supposed to love and trust. Sherlock had buried those memories long ago, along with the new ones that had occurred over the last four years. That was the reason why he did not attach himself to others, he was betrayed by the man he trusted and forced to go through the same situation again as an adult. He did the only thing someone who has lived these horrors would be expected to do.

He lashed out at the one closest to him, literally. Sherlock tore his leg free with a violent thrash and kicked John in the abdomen sending him tumbling backwards into the wall with a Thwack.

John’s mouth gaped as he struggled for air, when he had control of his body again he sucked in a lung full of air.

Sherlock stumbled to his feet and stared at John, frightened by his own strength. When reality finally hit Sherlock’s revving brain he had bent to aid John.

“John, I am so sorry! I-I- don’t know what happened just then. I-“ 

John cut him off with an impatient wave of his hand. John struggled to his feet, Sherlock straightened and watched the Doctor. Once he was fully recovered the ex-soldier growled and backed the Detective to the wall, Sherlock submissively shrunk into the corner of the wall until he was shorter than John.

Sherlock flinched when John placed his hands gently on his shoulders.  
“Sherlock, You are not the only one who has had a traumatizing life, even if I don’t know fully about yours, I can tell. But whatever it is, whatever has happened to you, I want to know everything. I want to help you, this isn't you, I want my best friend back. Look at me when I am speaking to you.” John placed a hand under the detective’s chin and tilted his head up until their eye met.

“I know your family is fucked up and so is mine, so can I make a deal with you?”

Sherlock nodded.

“If you will be my family, I will be yours. And family knows everything about each other, no secrets. Understood?”

Sherlock glanced back at the floor before nodding with one of his infamous smiles that John had missed so much.

“You have a deal.”

Then John gently pulled the Detective in for a long soft hug. When he pulled away he looked up at Sherlock and said.

“Now you, my friend,” John lightly pinched the non-existent fat on Sherlock’s stomach.

“Need a shirt and a few burgers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review!!!!


	6. Shopping!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go shopping for some new attire.
> 
> Disclaimer: STILL.OWN....NOTHING...

John had started the shower for Sherlock and fetched him a change of clothes. The Doctor felt the water and cooled it slightly.

“Sherlock! Your shower is ready!” John stepped out of the bathroom just as Sherlock was walking in.

“Ooh, Sorry John.” Sherlock side stepped and slid past John. The soldier made his way to the kitchen to prepare the tea. After boiling the kettle he had poured each of them a cup and placed the tray on the dining room table. He took a seat and waited another few minutes for Sherlock to step out of the bathroom, his black curls plastered to his thin face. John bit his knuckle to halt his chuckle. Sherlock’s clothes were several sizes too large. The neck of his purple shirt dipped way past his collar bone, the material hung loosely on bony shoulders, where it used to hug his ribcage and waist it swayed wildly as he walked. His fitted black pants sagged off his thin hips; his scrawny legs were spread widely apart to keep his pants up.

“How do I look?” Sherlock waddled in a circle, showing off his look.

“Absolutely…erm, Stunning?” John stood and walked over to Sherlock taking a good long look.

“We may need to go shopping?” Sherlock suggested with a smirk.

“No! It works on you!” John motioned for Sherlock to spin one more time. When he had turned completely around and met John’s eyes both men began to laugh, like the time Sherlock was found in Buckingham palace in only a sheet.

“Perhaps a sheet would look nicer?” John retorted with a snort. The Doctor held the waist band of Sherlock’s pants, pulled them up slightly and pinched the ends.

“I will pin this up for you so we can go to the store.” John went to the kitchen to rifle through the drawers for some pins, he grabbed several and closed the drawer.

“Come here so I can help you.” John opened the pins and placed them on the counter, he turned when he heard Sherlock utter.

“Well, shite.” John found Sherlock with his trousers heaped around his ankles revealing his thin legs and blue boxers. Sherlock bent and wiggled back into his trousers, holding them high on his hips as he waddled into the kitchen.

John let out a quick chuckle and pinched the hem of the waistband, sliding a pin through the material and pinning it closed, he repeated the process on the other side. 

“Here, tuck in your shirt, it will look better.” Sherlock stuffed the material in his waistband and flattened out the lumps as John searched for an old belt in his room.

He came out with a black belt and Sherlock’s favorite scarf.

Sherlock slid the belt through the loops and pulled it tight as John wrapped the scarf loosely around the Detective’s neck.  
“John, could you make another hole in the belt?” Sherlock stared at the belt shocked about how much smaller he had actually become. The soldier took a knife from the dish washer and made a hole in the leather four inches away from the closest hole. With a final tug, Sherlock closed the belt and spun around again.

“How do I look now?” 

“Like yourself again.” John smiled. “But we are still going to go shopping.” Both men donned their coats and raced each other downstairs using their elbows to dig past one another, like old times.

Sherlock exhaled deeply several times in hopes to catch his breath which had left him quickly starving for air. Once he recovered they both crossed the street and headed to the shops.

A wave of strange smells hit the two men’s noses as they stepped through the automatic doors into the colorful shop.

 

“So,What do we do?” Sherlock glanced around with no idea where to start.

“You look around and find something you like, try it on, and if it fits you buy it.” John looked up at the Detective incredulous. Did he just ask how to go shopping? “Haven’t you gone shopping before?”

“No.”

“Well, how did you get clothes? You just waltzed around naked?”

“No.”

“Well, what did you do then to cover yourself? Wear a sheet?”

“Yes.”

“You’re kidding me?” John let out a soft chuckle.

“Mrs. Hudson went shopping for me.”

“I see, let the dear old woman go out of her way to clothe you, Sherlock, you are unbelieveable…”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” They giggled slightly.

Both men immediately sobered up when they saw a young lady approaching with what looked like a painfully wide smile sprawled across her face.

“Hello, Gentlemen! May I help you?”

“No.” Sherlock turned and walked quickly away.

“No, No thank you! Uhm, excuse my friend he means no, thank you…” John hastily continued to apologize for Sherlock’s behavior.  
“Oh, It’s fine, Your boyfriend didn’t offend me.”

“Okay, that’s great-Wait? Boyfriend? Uhm, No you have us confused. We are just friend that’s all nothing more!”

“Don’t be afraid to flaunt it! It’s fine, I don’t judge. Have fun shopping with your love.” She smiled widely again before walking away.”

“But-I am not-I’m really not- Oh, Whatever.” John sighed loudly before turning to search for Sherlock. He found him ruffling through a rack of silk purple shirts.

“What size are you now?” John searched through a rack of slacks not too far away.

“Small….” Sherlock lowered his voice slightly.

“Good, here, go try these on.” John handed Sherlock who had several shirts tucked under his arm, a short stack of black pants.

A few minutes later Sherlock strutted from the changing room in his new attire that lay on his body correctly.

“This feels much better, damn I am boney….” Sherlock patted his stomach.

“It looks very nice, congrats.” John gave a smile to his friend whose face had lit up at seeing himself somewhat normal again.

“It’s classy, Black slacks and a sexy purple shirt…” Sherlock lovingly stroked the fabric.

“Oh, Please, You virgin!” John wished he could swallow those words as they left his lips. Sherlock flashed him a look of blazing animosity.

“Sherlock, I am sorry I-“Sherlock merely shook his head and stepped back into the changing room to put on his oversized clothes on again.

When he stepped out they walked in silence together to the register to check out.

“Have you found everything you are looking for sir?” It was the Cheshire cat women.

“Yes.”

“Well, you are a shy one aren’t you?!”

“Yes.”

“Oh, You are such a doll!”

She turned to John and whispered.

“Your boyfriend is just adorable! I bet he is a lot more talkative at home.” She flashed a wink.  
“He’s not-we’re not-I’m not-“John stuttered before giving up entirely.

“By the way sir,” She turned her attention back to Sherlock. “I love the purple shirts, very sexy.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at John with a sideways smirk; the soldier shook his head and clicked his tongue. Sherlock had forgiven him for now, which made John’s heart rest easy and now he just had to decide who he was more angry at; himself for constantly hurting Sherlock or the Cheshire woman who would not accept his pleas that he wasn’t gay.

John out of kindness paid the fee, much to Sherlock’s refusals.

“How nice, paying for your boyfriend’s clothes! I wish I had a relationship as magical as yours!” She handed John the receipt with a grin.

John decided that he might as well play along. He placed an arm gently around the Detective’s hip and pulled him close.

“Well, I would do anything for the man I love.” He leaned his head against Sherlock’s ribs.

“How long have you two been together?” She blushed and awaited an answer.

Sherlock understanding the game placed an arm around John’s shoulders.

“Six, happy years, I became sidetracked for the last four, but we are back together again.” Sherlock ended with a smile.

“And you waited for him!?” The woman practically bounced on her heels in happiness.

John replied, “I should beat him for what he put me through.”

“He already has.” Sherlock growled with a wink.

“Oh, Stop it you…” John gave the Detective a nudge with his foot.

“It’s just like a fairytale with you two! I hope you stay together! Now, you sir, you didn’t even thank your boyfriend for buying your clothes….I believe you owe him something….” She crossed her arms sternly.

 

Sherlock, still compelled to play along, swallowed his bad memories and feelings of human touch of any kind. He held John’s face with one hand, leaned down and gifted him with a thank you and a peck on the lips. John swallowed hard in shock; the game was going a tad bit too far.

“You’re, erm, welcome?”

“And enjoy your sexy purple shirts!” The Cheshire woman winked as the men turned and walked out of the building with their arms still around each other, as soon as they made it around the turn they dropped their arms and let out bellows of laughter, much to the distaste of the people around them.

Once they recovered John was the first to speak.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t ever kiss me again.”

“You know you loved it.”

“Never. Again.”

“Deal.”

Then they both broke into giggles as they shakily made their way back to 221B Baker street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think!


	7. Night terrors part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a Nightmare. Simple.

That Night, John and Sherlock ate dinner and watched Telly, John sat on his recliner as Sherlock curled himself on the couch in his oversized silk robe and shouted at the people who obviously couldn’t hear him.

“YOU ARSE OF COURSE HE IS THE FATHER!!!!YOU DUMB ARSE!”

“Sherlock, this may come as news to you, but They can’t hear you!”

“Well, they bloody well should! This show would be over in three minutes including credits!” Sherlock huffed and complained.

John chuckled and stretched, his eyes caught sight of the clock.

1:39 A.M.

He yawned and rubbed his shoulder before standing.

“We better get to bed Sherlock. It’s getting late.”

“You mean early, It is getting early.”

“Yes, whatever, now let’s go.” John switched off the Telly with his foot.

“But I don’t want to go to sleep!” Sherlock flopped on his side and turned to face the cushions of the couch.

“Don’t give me that toddler tantrum again, go to your room, you need plenty of rest if you want a new case.” 

“Really?” Sherlock peaked over his shoulder.

“Yes, and you can’t solve it without proper rest!” John had scurried to the couch, crouched down and squeezed his arms under Sherlock’s, he heaved and pulled the Detective off the couch with a swoop and dragged him to his room.

Once Sherlock had flopped on his bed, John hit the light and made his way to his own room to fall into sleep’s sweet embrace.

He supermanned onto his bed and was carried off into dreams upon hitting the pillow.

Hours had passed of silence when an unearthly scream jumpstarted his heart, he pounced from his bed and slipped on the slick tile, scurrying back to his feet he sprinted to Sherlock’s room where the screaming continued.

“Sherlock! Sherlock! Don’t worry! Hold on!” John swung the heavy door open with enough force to shake the flat and knock several frames from the wall.

Sherlock was on his bed flailing and screaming, the room was pitch black and John couldn’t see his own hand, but he knew where everything was and carefully picked his way to Sherlock’s bed.

“Sherlock! Stop screaming! It’s me!” John quickly reached for Sherlock’s wrist but only earned a punch in the mouth. He hissed as the warm crimson rolled over his tongue and between his teeth a taste he was all too familiar with. John pounced on Sherlock grabbing his thin wrists in his hands and pinning them to his sides. The Doctor gasped as Sherlock's wild legs berated his back knocking the wind from his lungs. The ex- soldier sat on Sherlock’s hips to still his sweaty bucking body. Considering that The Detective weighed as much as a teenage boy, he was exceptionally strong when panicked and struggled against John’s grip.

“Sherlock! For God’s sake stay still and listen to me! Damn it!” Then John realized that Sherlock was still asleep, trapped by the cold grip of a Nightmare. John remembered the fear that a Nightmare could cause someone especially when the Nightmare was based off of a traumatic experience in someone’s life. He attempted to talk him awake but he could hear Sherlock begin to sob in his twisted dream. 

He knew you should never wake a sleeping person, even more so when that sleeping person was having a terrifying experience like this, but he had no choice, one of them was going to get hurt unless he calmed the Thrashing man down. The Ex-soldier pinned down one of Sherlock’s wrist with his knee and used his free hand to gently slap the Detective’s cheek.

“Sherlock, come on Mate, wake up. You’re safe now, just wake up.” 

The thrashing nearly threw John off the bed but he recovered quickly and slapped his cheek a little harder.

“Sherlock! Wake up! It’s just a dream!” John had no choice but to rouse Sherlock, he lifted his hand high and bought it down fast across the screaming Man’s cheek.

Both men were sent flying from the sheets over the edge of the bed and onto the wooden floor.

Sherlock’s mind was still in the danger of the dream, he was poised and ready to attack whoever came at him out of the darkness. John made the mistake of touching Sherlock’s hand.

A coiled fist caught John’s cheek, another came to his chest and a knee dug into groin. His hands instinctively protected his jewels from another blow, he breathed deeply attempting in vain to stop the throbbing as Sherlock ran to the farthest corner of the room protecting himself from the “handlers” that weren’t there.

Once John had his breath back he carefully stood and limped to the trembling man in the corner.

“GET AWAY FROM ME! GO AWAY!” Sherlock bellowed and clawed.

John lowered himself to his knees and crawled slowly forward speaking as if talking to a frightened animal.

“Hush, shh, Sherlock, Don’t be scared, It’s me, John.” He creeped forward ever so slightly more.

“Why don’t you put down your hands and look me in the eye, can you do that?” John scooted forward until he was directly in front of Sherlock, even though it was dark, John could sense the Detective trembling against the wall.

“Sherlock, please, snap out of it mate.”

“John?” Sherlock peaked in between his hands that covered his face.

“Yes, it’s me. Are you okay now?”

“Where am I?”

“In the flat, in your bedroom.”

“I had a nightmare.”

“Yes, I kind of figured that.” John let out a soft sigh and offered his hands.

“Come on, get up.” Sherlock tentatively grabbed John’s hands, noticing they were wet with sweat and they pulled themselves upright.

John’s hands groped the wall for the switch and he stifled a scream as soon as the light revealed the damage done.

Covering his hands was an evil dripping liquid, blood soaked his shirt and trousers, he turned and screamed when he saw Sherlock’s mutilated face, the sound was so terrifying the Detective practically jumped out of his skin.

“W-what is it John?”

“Your face!”

“Yes, what about it!”

John grabbed Sherlock and dragged him into the bathroom, the Detective gasped as he stared in horror at his reflection. His face had nearly turned to strips of flesh as he was sleeping, he looked at his hands, the culprits that had scratched and clawed at himself during the night in the fog of a relived terror.

The Doctor immediately switched onto “must fix him” mode and sat Sherlock down on the closed toilet.

John ran in and out of the bathroom so quickly Sherlock barely noticed he had left, he placed the first aid kit on the counter and began working.

After ten minutes of hissing, cleaning, whining, rinsing, crying, drying, and sighing, John had done all he could do with the tools he had.

“You are going to need stitches. Let’s go to the hospital.” John sighed and went to his room to change into clothes not so bloody. He came out and found Sherlock still in the bathroom, not moving and still in his bloody clothes.

“Sherlock, come on, they just need to give you stitches so it’ll heal properly.”

The Detective remained rooted.

“No one is going to hurt you, mate. I’ll stay right with you, the whole time.”

“Really?”

“Cross my heart.”

Sherlock slowly stood and trudged to his room to change, he came out wearing one of his new outfits and together they walked downstairs to hail a cab to the Hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SO SORRY THIS HAS TAKEN ME SO LONG!!!!!! Welp, this is part one! Enjoy and I do not own anything!!!!!!!!


	8. Don't touch me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's trip to the hospital.
> 
> Disclaimer: All characters to BBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY FOR TAKING SO LONG! I have been very busy! But I will be updating more often! Enjoy! and please comment!

Sherlock kept his collar up and his head low, trying his best to hide his mauled features from London’s curious cold eyes. He never told John how frightened he always was to step outside, to wander the same streets he had been so brutally snatched off of all those years ago. He found himself flinching at every man he passed, and only recently and with great difficultly, he had mastered looking people in the eyes again, people other than John.

John.

His best friend in the whole Universe, the only one he thought about when he was locked in that God forsaken place. That is how he had made it through the torture, the only way he could. Most people concentrate on the things they love when put in such an awful situation. 

He did love John. 

Even he couldn’t hide it.

No, not like that.

He had never thought of John as a sexual partner, strictly a best friend. Someone he could turn to in his time of need, someone to make him laugh, to comfort him or even to slap some sense in to him.

Sherlock had been denied all these needs since the day he was born. John was his whole family, his whole life. His Mother had despised him, never bonding or wanting to. His Father-His Father had abused him practically every waking moment-when he was drunk, and he was drunk often-using his belt was his favorite form of abuse.

 

Sherlock had remembered one particular bad beating; he had broken one of Mother’s favorite trinkets while dusting. He was only eight years old.

His Father had stumbled down the stairs to find a porcelain-skinned frail little Sherlock curled in the corner in fright, trembling violently, even before it has started.

Leaning close to the curly head his Father’s breath reeked of alcohol and cigar smoke. Sherlock held his breath, refusing to coat his lungs with the awful stench.

“What did you do now? Skinny little Bitch.” His Father sneered and prodded the thin chest hard with a fist.

“I broke one of Mummy’s Trinkets….It was an accident….” Sherlock had shrunk into himself even more.

“Now, Bitch, what happens to bad boys who break things?” His Father mused; he never called Sherlock by name.

“But-It w-was an accident.” Sherlock stammered and his weak eyes began to prickle and well with hot tears.  
“Get to your room now!” His Father swatted, and missed as the rail of a child raced up the stairs, two at a time, he had gangly legs, even then.

His Father had taken a considerable time longer to climb the steps, leaning precariously on the banister, slowly trudging with dragging drunken steps.

Sherlock had darted into his room and sat on the furthermost corner of the bed, awaiting his destined punishment.

His Father opened the door frighteningly slow, and closed it just, Sherlock had caught a glimpse of his brother who gazed sympathetically into the room.

His Brother had always cared for him, but there wasn’t much he could do to protect him, otherwise he would be beaten too. Sherlock had never held it against him, but had just secretly called him a coward.

His attention had snapped forward to his Father who stood menacingly in front of him, tapping an offbeat rhythm on his leg.

“Off with the trousers.” His Father glared.

Sherlock’s face flushed as he obediently, but reluctantly removed his trousers and shivered in his small black briefs. Not that removing his trousers would make the hits any more painful, it was purely for embarrassment. Sherlock had been and is very modest to his lanky form.

His Father had roughly spun him around and leaned his little body over the bed. Sherlock whimpered as a heavy hand fell on his shoulder, holding him still. 

Then the belt swung with a Thwack.

 

Over

And

Over

Again.

Little Sherlock had lost count of how many times the belt had violently slapped his thin skin.

Then the belt’s target began to migrate climbing up his back and then falling back down to his legs.

His Father’s swings stopped when his arm grew tired.

Then he switched hands.

Sherlock had begun to cry, but he didn’t dare thrash or move.

The hitting just wouldn’t stop.  
Then Sherlock grew numb, that wasn’t good.

He hadn’t even noticed his Father stop berating him and leave, he remained hunched over the bed for who knows how long sobbing silently until two hands grabbed his shoulders and gently pulled him upright, he wobbled before his legs gave out.

But those hands had caught him.

His Brother Mycroft smiled uncertainly down at him. Being fifth-teen he had easily lifted up his shaking brother and laid him on his stomach on the bed. He snuck out of the room and ran back in closing the door slowly and gently to avoid and noise; he locked it with a click and went to his brother.

Mycroft worked quickly and silently, not wanting to humiliate his brother any more than necessary. He had slid his hands under Sherlock’s chest and unbuttoned the polo with ease. Sherlock winced as Mycroft peeled the shirt from his bruised and sweaty back.

Sherlock shivered tremendously on his sheets in only his small pants. 

He was absolutely thoroughly embarrassed.

Once cool rags had been laid over his bruised body sucking away the agonizing heat and a spray had been misted over his injuries and thoroughly rubbed into his muscles he had slowly ceased crying.

Mycroft laid a thin sheet over Sherlock and planted a brotherly kiss on his sweaty forehead before packing and leaving the room without a word.

And that was Sherlock’s childhood in a nutshell.

Sherlock had snapped back to reality and found himself standing behind John who was checking him into the Hospital.

Suddenly a Nurse reached for his hand and gently led him down the corridors into a small, dull room. John entered directly behind him.

Knowing this was a self-harm case, the Nurse was sure to be extra careful and gentle.

Sherlock hated it.

The coddling.

The extra care.

The nervousness people had when around him.

‘Don’t scare Sherlock!’  
‘Be very careful!’  
‘poor delicate thing.’

He didn’t need the extra care, he wanted to yell in the Nurses face to get it over with!  
But he sat down obediently on the crisp sheets of the bed and cursed to himself for being so docile.

His heart raced as the Nurse prepared the needle, her lips moving, but Sherlock couldn’t hear a sound except for the blood pounding in his ears.

He bit his tongue to hold back his jitters and then he felt a hand.

John.

John recognized his fear and held his hand, Sherlock cursed himself again when he involuntarily squeezed hard.

How pathetic.

Then he just concentrated on the needle coming closer to his face and then pulling away again and again.

It seemed like hours.

“There you are dear, all done, not so bad now was it?” The Nurse smiled up at him, he was still considerably taller, even though he was sitting.

“No.” He had to admit, the pain wasn’t all that terrible.

“Very good!” She patted his cheek gently before leaving. “You can leave at any time!” She called back.

Sherlock let out a shaky breath that he had been holding.

“Would you like a lollie?” John asked with a giggle.

“Yes, actually I would.” Sherlock stood, brushed his trousers and turned with a sniff.

After they had stopped by the candy Shoppe they made a silent trudge home, enjoying their treasures on the way.

It was dawn, by the time they made it back to 221B Baker street.

John collapsed on his chair and Sherlock went immediately into the bathroom, to check the damage done to his face.

He was hideous.

The long scars that ran down his cheeks, across his forehead and even some minor ones at his neck all lined bright red. The deepest gashes under his eyes were where the stitches were needed, making it look like he was crying thread. 

He curled his lip in disgusting revolt at himself, and then he realized that there was still skin under his finger nails. He grimaced as he washed his hands furiously picking under his nails until they sparkled.

He looked back up into the mirror to find a face that wasn’t his staring back.

John.

“You okay?”

“I am always okay…..”

“If you want to talk? About anything, you can always talk to me, no matter the time.” The way John emphasized the word ‘anything’ Sherlock knew.

He knew.

Oh God, He knew what happened.

He knew about the rape.

How did he know?

Sherlock in shock walked quickly out of the bathroom and to his infamous spot on the couch.

Sherlock lifted his gaze carefully when he felt a presence.

Of course, John.

“Sherlock, I really don’t like doing this. It hurts me to do this.”

Sherlock stared, utterly confused.

“I am so sorry, but this is for your own good.”

Then John pounced on him.

At first, Sherlock didn't know what was happening until a familiar tingle at his sides forced a laugh from him.

This hasn't happened in years.

He was being tickled.

The Detective, wanting to still pout was forced to laugh as John ran his fingers rapidly against Sherlock’s sides.

Sherlock gaped, this was his one weakness and he laughed loudly, uncontrollably.

So he fought back, digging his long fingers into John’s sides.

Both of them hit the floor writhing and laughing loudly.

Sherlock gathered his long legs and used them to keep John at bay, but to no avail, John grabbed Sherlock’s foot and ran his finger nails from heel to toe sending Sherlock into shrieks far into a soprano range.

Once both men were out of breath the painful tickling stopped and they just lay on the floor shaking with bliss.

The ordeal had been too much for the friends and sleep quickly overtook them both, still curled on the floor.

With Sherlock’s hand in John’s.


	9. The case part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own none of the characters!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment! I love to hear what you lovely readers think!!!!!! ~Lizzie

John has woken up sometime in the afternoon.

On the floor.

Next to Sherlock.

Like really close, the lanky Detective was sprawled over John’s chest, he was quite a useful blanket.

The ex- soldier took his time to wake, stretching and growling in painful pleasure as his stiff muscles loosened. He sighed heavily and glanced down at the curly head that lay contently on his chest, a smile tugged at his lips, feeling glad his friend had an uninterrupted sleep. 

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a man clearing his throat.

The Doctor turned his head to look behind him and met Mycroft’s unwavering gaze.

“Sleep well?” Mycroft mused.

“How the hell did you get in?!” John whispered, not wanting to wake his friend who had begun to snore softly.

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow.

John cursed to himself, why did he even bother asking the British government how he had opened a door to a cheap flat.

“Slept wonderfully, thanks for asking.” John remained rooted to the floor.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your post-foreplay nap.”

“Fore-play? Oh no! This is not what it looks like!!! We were tickling each other. Oh God! Not like that! I mean we- I- I am not Gay!!!” John stuttered and felt his cheeks grow hot.

“Of course you’re not.” Mycroft held back a smirk.

The younger Holmes stirred on John’s chest before burying his head into the crook of John’s neck.

John’s face lit up brighter than the sun.

“Ehrm, Sherlock, we, have a guest. Get up.” The Doctor nervously poked the Detective to wake him.

The Detective refused to move but spoke into John’s neck. “Who is it?” His hot breath tickled John who turned more and more red.

“Your Brother.”

At first not comprehending what has been said, the Detective remained still.  
Then he was on his feet and nose to nose with his elder Brother, glaring down.

“Don’t you knock?” He bared his teeth at Mycroft who smiled wryly up to his disheveled brother.

The smile faded from the elder’s face when he caught sight of the scars his Brother donned.

“My God, what happened?” The elder Holmes tentatively reached for his brother’s cheek, tracing the scars with his thumb.

“Nightmare.” Sherlock swallowed back his humiliation.

Mycroft simply shook his head and turned his attention to John, who was on his feet rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“I need to speak with you, privately.” 

John blinked, confused, what did Mycroft want with him? The elder always considered John as Sherlock’s pet, what was the sudden interest?

When neither man budged Mycroft glared at Sherlock, who after returning the gaze gave up and with a huff stalked towards his room and closed the door.

“Come with me.” Mycroft began to the door and paused, waiting for John to follow.

The Doctor glared down at his clothes, wrinkled and disheveled from being slept in, he hadn’t changed out of his day clothes when they had returned from last night.

Mycroft smiled and sighed, “Don’t worry, you are just coming for a ride, no need to look nice.”

John threw his coat over his shoulders and yawned trudging down the stairs after Mycroft.

After all, he didn’t need to look pretty for the British Government.

They stepped into one of the ever-present sleek black cars and drove off quickly from Baker street.

“I wanted to show you something, I think will be of great interest to you.” Mycroft watched John carefully, more calculating than his younger brother.

It unnerved the Doctor.

“May I ask where we are going?” John shifted in the hard leather seats, attempting to get comfortable.

“To the place Sherlock was held.”

John gaped at the elder Holmes.

“What the Hell for?”

Mycroft grimaced, “Well, not exactly, I am showing you the general area, and then we are heading to a secret station of mine. One of the victims has been found and is being tended to as we speak.”

“One of how many?” John felt his stomach drop and flip.

“Unknown.” Mycroft leaned his head wearily against the tinted window and sighed. He looked much older than he was; dark circles fell under his eyes. His hair grayed and thinned down by his ears, he had made no effort to hide it or have his hair colored.

Clearly under a lot of stress.

“I am hoping that once you see the victim and possibly talk to her, we might have a chance of getting the rest of them out.” Mycroft rubbed his temples.

“Out of what?” John already knew the answer, he just needed confirmation.

“The Prostitution ring,” Mycroft winced.

John put a trembling hand to his mouth, swallowing repetitively to hold the little contents of his stomach down.

“That’s where Sherlock was? For four –y-years?” John blinked back tears.

Mycroft nodded a fraction.

“Do you know who it was run by?” John took in a shaky breath and calmed himself.

“Moriarty.”

John punched the roof with enough force to visibly dent the metal and possibly break a few bones in his hand.

He immediately regretted it and cursed foully while rubbing his knuckles furiously.

Mycroft blinked, completely unfazed, he was obviously used to such out bursts from his Brother.

“Sorry ‘bout the roof.” The riled up ex-soldier growled.

“I have dozens more.” Mycroft waved his apology away.

John had no doubt about that.

They continued the car ride in a mutual silence for two hours.

John, who had been gazing out the window noticed the change in scenery, the neighborhoods became more and more rundown. Less and less people happily walked the streets and more dilapidated apartments glared back at him. The car slowed considerably in front of a particular ominous looking apartment. It towered high above the others with all windows taped up and boarded. Not one car was parked in front and not a sound came from the many rooms.

John could only imagine what went on in those dirty dark rooms.

“This,” Mycroft pointed, “Is where we found Sherlock, room 187. He was our top priority; we didn’t realize the other rooms were filled. Lestrade will fill you in on the case. John, before we go any further, I need to know if you are with me on this.”  
Mycroft watched his every movement with a fierce gaze, pressuring an answer from him.

“To get Moriarty?” John pursed his lips as he imagined beating Moriarty to a pulp and then strangling him with his bare hands.

“Once and for all.” Mycroft growled with an evil grin.


	10. Tea?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: ALL CHARACTERS BELONG TO THE BBC AND SIR CONAN DOYLE!

John had silently agreed and Mycroft smiled devilishly and leaned back into the leather. It seemed only moments had passed until they pulled up to a small plain black building with darkly tinted windows, John had no idea where he was, or even if he was in London anymore.

 

He obediently followed Mycroft in close pursuit and gasped at the interior of the building, it was so much larger on the inside.

 

Where has he heard that before?

 

A counter cut the large square room in half, set up behind the counter were rows of identical desks with identical computers sitting on top. Each desk was occupied with a man or woman dressed in black talking quickly and quietly into their headsets. The office was too uniform for John’s taste, too strict and serious. He sucked his teeth in distaste at how he looked feeling extremely out of place amongst all the Police and Detective’s in their professional clothing compared to his day old wrinkled jeans and shirt.

 

His train of thought about the quality of his clothes was put to a stop by Mycroft who had apparently been speaking to him.

 

“Did you hear a word I just said?” Mycroft finally exclaimed.

 

“Oh, I-um- no, sorry. Could you repeat that?” John stammered and blushed wildly.

 

Mycroft scoffed and simply sighed, “Just follow me, John.” A small smile tugged at Mycroft’s lips, John was just like his brother. John quickly followed Mycroft into the elevator feeling his cheeks grow hotter by the moment.

 

Mycroft just loved to catch him in his most awkward moments.

 

They stood stiffly in the elevator as some soft music soothed the thick silence that lay heavily in the air as they ascended to the holding cells, floor 28. The ascension stopped and for a moment they felt their stomachs drop ever so slightly that signaled they had reached their destination, the doors rolled open and they stepped out and onto the linoleum floor, shoes squeaking on the freshly waxed tiles.

 

More desks, more computers and more prim people manning the stations.

 

At the far end of the room a large glass panel reflected back instead of one of the dull white walls. John nonchalantly peaked over the elder Holmes shoulder to get a look as to what lay beyond the glass.

 

But it wasn’t glass, it was a one-way mirror and inside sitting at the cold, metal table was a young girl holding a cup of water in her small trembling hands. She wore an over-sized grey shirt that fell to her ankles, while her long brown hair rippled down her back in wet ringlets from being freshly bathed. Her large verdigris eyes stared straight ahead concentrating on everything and nothing, definite shock. The little girl’s skin, a pearly ivory made her eyes shines even brighter. The girl’s frail body was dotted by the blessings of freckles kissing her arms, nose and haloing her eyes.

 

But despite her beauty she held such an air of pure terror that the features you were graced with seeing were marred by a veil of hatred, not that she was at fault. Children reflect what they are taught, and this child had animosity and fear weaved into every fiber of her being.

 

John felt sick straight through his body, whoever had turned this beautiful girl into such a frightened creature deserved to be ripped apart limb by limb, skinned and hung to rot in the sun for all to see and mock.

 

The ex-soldier knew these were downright sinful, disgusting thoughts but he could not control his anger as he imagined how this little girl should be: Laughing, prancing and singing. 

 

What was left in a child once their innocence was brutally snatched from their still developing hands? 

 

Mycroft led John to the heavy metal door, guarded by two guards armed to the teeth. With a cold glance at Mycroft they sidestepped and let the two men through.

 

The little girl dropped her cup with a shriek and scurried into the corner falling to her knees and tucking her head down to the floor.

 

A woman ran in behind, John recalled seeing her in the hall, scooped down and began to gently whisper nonsense comforts. John and Mycroft stood on the far end of the room while the trembling child eyed them suspiciously, not even paying attention to the dark haired woman that had her hands caressing the ivory face.

 

The girl, Melissa, John had heard the woman calling her by that, finally agreed to sit at the far end of the table, away from the two “scary men.”

 

John did not take offence to this Label, the gir-, Melissa has been through an ordeal after all.

 

Once everyone was settled and comfortable, John broke the silence with a quiet whisper.

 

“Hello, Melissa, My, you are a very pretty little girl.” The Doctor flashed a shy but brilliant grin at the girl who blushed bashfully and averted her eyes.

 

She must have never been called pretty before. Instantly feeling pity the smile faded and was replaced by a look of sympathy, John nudged Mycroft and just stared at him, hoping he would take the hint to make a move.

 

He cleared his throat loudly frightening Melissa to jump out of her skin.

 

“My apologies, Miss. We would like to speak to you if that is alright, you can take as long as you’d like to answer. We are not here to hurt you; we need to have a nice little chat. No need to feel embarrassed or scared, alright?” Mycroft drew a hopeful smile that seemed more like a grimace to John, but Melissa smiled and nodded fractionally.

 

Mycroft had told John earlier to ask simple yet important questions to keep things clear and quick.

 

He drew in a shallow breath while thinking of what to say.

 

So he started simply.

 

“How old are you, Melissa?”

 

She held up all the fingers on her right hand and two on her left.

 

“My, aren’t you a big girl!”

 

That precious smile swept across her face and made John’s heart melt.

 

Now, for the serious questions.

 

“Do you remember where you were?”

 

The beautiful smile vanished instantly, replaced by a stoic expression with eyes far too harsh for a five year old babe.

 

“A bad place.” She stared grimly at the floor.

 

“How long were you there for? Can you remember?” John whispered lightly, not wanting to frighten her.

 

“Four Birthdays.” John’s heart stopped momentarily and he clenched his jaw as he felt an animalistic rage boiling in his gut. Those fucking perverted, disgusting bastards had been hurting this baby for two fucking years! Mycroft slowly placed a hand on John’s clenched fists with a warning twinkling in his eye. John sucked in a breath through his teeth and felt his face flush with retained madness.

 

As he was regaining his composure Mycroft began to ask questions.

 

“Did you know anybody there your age?”

 

“Yes, we used to talk through the vents, my friends would sing songs at night with me.”

 

John felt his heart cracking open for this little girl, he wanted nothing more than to run to her and hold her in a close hug. But that would do more damage than good.

 

“How many of your friends were there?”

 

“There were about 15 in my room at night to sleep, and then he would come and take them all away in the morning.”

 

“Who is ‘him’?” John asked, now somewhat calmer.

 

“Moriarty.” Melissa cringed. “His mean friends liked to bully us.”

 

“What did he do to you?” Mycroft leaned a bit closer as to hear her small voice.

 

“Sometimes they would not give us food, or spank us, or make us-“ She broke off, wincing at her memories.

 

“What would he do to you, Sweetheart?” John encouraged.

“He would put me alone in a dark room with a scary man.” She began to visibly tremble in her chair.

 

“And what would the scary man do to you?” John silently wished he didn’t ask that.

 

“Nothing.” Melissa shrugged.

 

John and Mycroft both sat puzzled.

 

“Then what happened in the room with the scary man?” Mycroft asked quietly.

 

“They would hurt scary man, make him scream and cry. They made me watch, and then I would clean him. He was always bleeding.”

 

John was still incredibly puzzled and horrified.

 

“Why did you say this man was scary? What did he do to make him scary?” John questioned.

 

“He always looked scary.” Melissa had a stare that looked right through the two men, making them shift uncomfortably.

 

“Can you describe him?” Mycroft gently pried.

 

“He was very tall, very skinny. He had a lot of curly black hair, very soft to touch when I cleaned it. He had really blue and grey eyes, always looked sad.” Melissa contemplated to herself as John and Mycroft gaped, when realizing both men shut their mouths.

 

John asked the next question.

 

“Did you catch his name? Did he ever speak?”

 

“No, he never spoke, never said much, he always was very quiet, I didn’t hear him make a noise until I was 6. My friend would help me clean him up when I was too little, I was doing it by myself when I was 6.”

 

“His name, did you ever hear his name?” Mycroft persisted.

 

“He had a funny name….I don’t think it was his first name…..Moriarty just used to call him Holmes.”

 

Both men fell back into their seat. Stunned. How could this little girl out of all of them, this one, who had cared for Sherlock for four years. John realized how they had tortured her; they never laid a finger on her, or any of the other victims. This was all to attract attention, to him and to Sherlock. Well, why not release them all since Sherlock was safe.

 

Moriarty was not done yet.

 

Sherlock hadn’t escaped.

 

He had been given some leash.

 

Shit.

 

Then John realized that he had left Sherlock alone in a flat.

 

And he was over three hours away.

 

Mycroft apparently had had the same revelation seconds earlier because he had jumped to his feet faster than what John would of thought possible startling both the soldier and Melissa.

 

“We’d better get back to Baker street, John.”

Both men had ran through the door, passed the Police and down 28 flights of stairs before leaping into the back seat of a sleek black car. Mycroft nor John was out of breath as pure adrenaline coursed their shaking veins.

 

“221B BAKER STREET! DRIVE!” Mycroft screamed at the driver who hit the gas, the wheels screeched and stalled before zooming down the street. Mycroft’s fist pounded on a red button on his armrest and moments later Police cars from the shadows switched on their sirens and escorted them down the highway at over one hundred miles an hour.

 

John and the twitching Elder Holmes prayed to anyone who would listen and in one long hour they pulled in front of the flat.

 

The car was still rolling when they burst out and ran up the stairs; the door laid a splintered mess on the floor.

 

John’s heart landed on the floor when he stepped over the wooden door and into his demolished flat. All of Sherlock’s experiments lay strewn across the floor, jars of God knows what oozed down the walls and across the carpets. The chairs broken and shattered over turned across the living room. The skull had rolled from its perch and on to the blood stained carpet. John begged it wasn’t Sherlock’s blood, even though he knew it was. There was a definite sign of a struggle from the scuff marks on the floor, the bloody prints on the walls and even a few curly black hairs clumped together entangled in the ruffled carpet.

 

The elder Holmes swayed and clung to the counter to support himself, either out of shock or all that running was coming back to nip him in his saggy old arse.

 

John staggered dumbly about the remnants of his flat until his pocket vibrated. He whipped out his phone and read behind blurry eyes.

 

I am so glad to have my Pet back; I was so lonely without him.

 

I guess that’s why they say to keep your Dog on a leash!

 

Kisses! Why don’t you stop by for some tea!

 

~M

 

 

 

Authors Note: I just want to thank everyone who has kudos and read my story! Sorry I haven't been able to thank you personally, but I want you to know I appreciate it and greatly appreciate you input! Please tell me what you think and how I can improve!


	11. Strip, Slut!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All characters belong to BBC AND SIR CONAN DOYLE!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think! If you guys want a more intense chapter or graphic tell me, if not tell me also!

John’s eyes scanned the tiny screen over and over again, not believing what his eyes were clearly seeing.

This was all too real, too terrifying, too horrid to imagine.

But this wasn’t a nightmare or some sick twisted dream, it was reality and it was falling away at the seams.

“My-Mycroft! R-r-read t-this!” John stammered and thrust the phone at the elder Holmes whose expression darkened instantly his pupils shrunk to pinpoints as the anger rolled off his skin like oil.

Mycroft dug in his trousers for his phone, with a touch of a button he had called his own personal police force. Within moments the police from down stairs had sprinted up the stairs and into the flat, and stared dumbly around before instincts kicked in so they began collecting samples and snapping pictures.

Mycroft yanked John by the shoulder towards the stairs; they descended two at a time and jumped back into a police car.

Mycroft didn’t speak a word; the woman knew exactly where they were going. She switched on the sirens and let the car roar to life. They quickly sped away from Baker street and to find Lestrade

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~  
They found Lestrade in his office on the phone with what seemed a very angry Boss. When he caught the serious faces of John and Mycroft he excused himself from the phone call and stood.

“What’s up, John, Mycroft?”

Sally walked in on that moment carrying coffee and placed a steaming cup on Lestrade’s desk, she didn’t seem to have any witty remark now that the Freak wasn’t around anymore.

They still thought he was dead.

John wringed his hands and whispered. 

“We need to talk.”

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~  
Where am I?  
What is on me?  
What the Hell is that smell?  
~Entering Mind Palace~

Last coherent Memory: Playing Violin  
Next Memory: …….

Come on damn brain! Think, you were playing violin….Then What?  
Aah, Yes, he heard scuffling downstairs and then two large men kicked down the door.  
He remembered the fear that pumped through his veins as the large men both donned in dark clothes, black leather gloves and a hot looking balaclava. He had reached for the dagger John had kept concealed under the coffee table and took a proper stance against his assailants.

He lost quickly.

The larger one had delivered such a blow to the head Sherlock saw stars and had hit his head on the edge of the table on the way down, but to his satisfaction he had sliced his attacker’s forearm deeply.

He almost smiled as the blood bubbled from the wound and dripped onto the rug. The other attacker gave him a kick to the ribs so hard he was lifted over two feet into the air. 

The pain roared in his stomach so intensely he just froze crouched over on all fours and retched blood onto the floor.

That most certainly wasn’t good.

He began to tremble as all that retching weakened his already empty body.

He was having another Nightmare, that was all, a trick of the mind. 

A trick.  
A trick.  
A trick.

John! All he had to do was scream for John, he would wake him and help him calm down, he needed John.

“John! John! Help me please!” He screamed and shouted for John but only received more blows for his efforts until he had stopped trying altogether.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no! This couldn’t be happening again! Not to Me! Please not again!

But his thoughts were cut short by the sudden inhalation of chloroform.

Then his wrists were shackled and all……his……thoughts……suddenly………………went……………….Black.   
~Exiting Mind palace~  
So that is what had happened.  
And that is why he was stuffed uncomfortably into the back of a very small car judging by the size of the trunk. His long legs were tangled in themselves and with what felt like twine.  
There was only one thing he could do in a situation like this.  
“YOU FUCKING BASTARDS! WHEN I GET OUT OF HERE I SWEAR TO FUCK I AM GOING TO RIP OUT YOUR THROATS! I DEMAND A REMATCH ON YOUR SORRY ARSE!”  
Sherlock continued his rant muffled by a rag and wool sack thrown over his head, not to mention he was in a trunk.  
Fuck.  
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~  
John had spent a considerable amount of explaining the whole situation to Sally and Lestrade who had gaped at him and never stopped staring.  
Once they were bought up to date Sally’s eyes began to well with tears. Lestrade began shouting orders into the phone collecting a massive force to go find Sherlock as well as the other victims.

Within half an hour John stood on the roof of a police car in front of a collection of over Three hundred officers, made up of Mycroft’s personnel, the Locals and even a few from out of the city. The soldier administered his commands, briefing the others for what was to come and what to expect.

“I am not sure what we will find, but I assure you it will not be pretty. Prepare yourself for the worst and keep your guns at the ready. I am a Doctor and I ask if you have any medical experience please step forward!”  
About 15 Men and women stepped forward.  
“Good, you will be grouped amongst the others to tend to anyone who needs help. Be careful, these people have been through an ordeal keep them calm. We believe Sherlock is the main victim and will therefore sustain the worst injuries if found find me immediately. I want no one else to touch him. Paramedics will be following us to help with the rest of the injured. Lestrade here will group you and then we will be leaving shortly. Oh, and one more thing. If you find Moriarty do not hesitate to shoot if threatened, but we want him alive if possible. Everyone, good luck!”

Then John and Mycroft took their places in Lestrade’s car, once everyone was settled they took off.

Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock would get out alive.

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

He cursed himself for passing out, it was the drugs he had been inhaling. Before long the rhythmic bumping along the road had ceased and the loud engine fell silent. Sherlock held his breath and waited in terror, all too soon the trunk door flew open and a large pair of hands gripped him by the shoulders and dragged him out. He had no idea where he was due to the smelly blindfold held tightly across his bloody brow. His feet hit the floor but gave away from the drugs, they had given him something else that had weakened him so. His head spun and his stomach churned. His transport was failing him.  
One of the men had held him straight and judging by the small hands that held him upright it was the smaller guard, the touch was surprisingly gentle and in pure exhaustion Sherlock leaned his body weight back and rested his head on the Man’s shoulder. No one protested, he let himself sink into sleep’s sweet delivering kiss and was quickly shaken away as they dragged him up flight after flight of stairs. A door creaked open and he welcomed the warm air inside licking at his cold-bitten skin.

The room was silent but he picked up snippets of a conversation at the far end of the room with the larger Man and to his disgust, Moriarty.

“Well, let’s get started shall we! Before dear Johnny Boy comes.”

Sherlock boiled with rage, how this gay, in-bred, bipolar, twisted bastard dare speak of John! If he had the strength he would ring Moriarty’s thin little neck. The man holding him gently lowered him to the ground against the wall careful not to make his injuries any worse. The Detective leaned back and enjoyed the coolness of the wall against his hot back.

“Prepare him for the fun!” Moriarty clapped gleefully before turning and sauntering out of the room.

Sherlock growled inwardly as small hands wrenched him standing again. A larger pair of hands grabbed his coat and began to peel it off.

“Time to strip, Slut.”

“Don’t call him that, Eric! It’s bad enough Moriarty made us fetch him!”

“Thanks for mentioning my name, Bastard!”

Now he began to recall who the small man was, he was the one who would clean him after severe beatings. He was the one who was forced to perform evil acts on him. He remembered once a few years ago hearing him beg Moriarty to spare his family for his services. This was his service.

Sherlock understood the man was simply performing a job to keep his family safe. That’s why he would constantly do his best to comfort him and ease his pain when possible. The Detective decided that if he ever escapes he would vow and make sure that small man and his family safely escape Moriarty’s shadow. Eric, well, he had other plans for him.

Eric’s hands tore at Sherlock’s new clothes stripping them off roughly making sure to agitate his broken ribs. The small man did his best to hold Sherlock gently as he was brutally stripped off his dignity, Eric’s hands went to the Detective’s trousers and fumbled with the belt. The little man felt Holmes’ body shudder and buck weakly in protest, but it was a futile attempt. His trousers fell at his ankles and smaller noticed how thin he was compared to last time. Eric reached the hem of the trousers with a disgusting grin but the small man yanked Sherlock back.

“That’s enough! Leave him in his pants for goodness sake!” Sherlock let out a sigh of relief.

“Moriarty said strip him of every thread! Orders are orders!” Sherlock’s relief was short lived, and he quickly stiffened against the leather clad hands that reached his waist and ripped at his last scrap of dignity. The Detective instantly reached to cover himself but instead wrenched his shoulders out of place as the shackles and the other man’s arms held his hands tightly behind his back. A strangled, muffled cry escaped his quivering lips.

Oh God! I’m so scared! Sherlock, think, don’t worry; this is just flesh…..There is no need for embarrassment. Oh, who am I kidding!? This is downright humiliating! They are going to rape me again! I know it! Please to whatever higher power that is listening please Help me! John better get his arse here fast or it will be too late!

 

The smaller man lead Sherlock to a chair and forced him to sit, tying his arms and legs to the chair. Eric had already left the room so the smaller man was able to share a few comforting words.

“Listen I am really sorry about this, Mate. I will try and convince them to let you go.” He reached up and gently removed the blindfold.

Sherlock stared at him with fear and quickly averted his eyes in humiliation.

“Don’t bit me now, I am going to remove the gag.” He reached behind the curly head and untied the cloth before pulling it out of the young man’s cramped jaws.

“My name is Alex. And, don’t be ashamed Mr. Holmes, I am very sorry.” Alex patted him on the Shoulder and left quickly closing Sherlock in the hot, dark, musty room to cry in silence.


	12. Fun time!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All characters don't belong to me...blah blah blah

They had arrived to the building where all the victims were locked away, where they had Sherlock.

 

John took a slow breath, he had to prepare himself. He has seen the damage done in wars to people, victims of injuries and rape. He has seen practically everything but he needed preparation if he was going to lead everyone in to this mess and still be the leader.

 

They stepped out of their cars and lined up about two blocks away from the apartment building.

 

“Alright, so now that you are grouped I want you to stay with who you are assigned, if you must split up always go in pairs. Do NOT go alone anywhere. I want groups 1-15 with me and Lestrade, and groups 15-30 with Sally and Anderson. Paramedics, half of you with Sally the other half with me. Sally’s group, go through the back, everyone else, follow me. Guns at the ready!” 

 

Dozens of boots clicked on the pavement as the groups flocked with their leaders towards the supposedly empty building.

 

John’s breath had hitched in his throat, not from breathlessness but from fear, the tremble in his hands was back. Great timing….

 

He looked at Lestrade who gave him a comforting nod, they had reached the front door, John leaned against the wood.

 

Drew one last calming breath.

 

Then he turned and kicked down the door.

 

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

 

Hot, so hot, wet, dark, afraid, looping, memories twisting, breaking, shifting, changing, what was real?

 

God was he Confused.

 

But the icy sting of gallons of freezing water on his hot body brought him back to reality with a scream. Uncontrollably, he began to tremble and he cursed numbly to himself for being so weak of the flesh, he had to learn to control himself so he wouldn’t be humiliated in front of these Bastards.

 

Then the King Bastard walked in with a cruel smile on his face which quickly broke into an even wider grin as he looked Sherlock up and down.

 

“Good Morning, Sweetheart.” Moriarty drolled.

 

He must have slept through the night, he didn’t remember falling asleep.

 

“Oh, look you’re already so excited for what is to come!” Moriarty blushed evilly and grinned down at Sherlock.

 

The Detective simply stared at him utterly confused to what he found so damn amusing. Then his gaze harshened and he glanced down momentarily, ever so slightly.

 

Damn male body and its need to be so fucking annoying in the morning. Sherlock’s face practically turned purple at how ashamed he felt, Moriarty loved it.

 

The Detective held back a groan of disgust as Moriarty sat on his lap and leaned in to whisper in his face.

 

“Oh, how I have missed you my little pet! Why did you run away? You know what happens to my pets that run away from Master?”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly to hold back the wave of nausea he felt sucking him in.

 

“Answer me you little Bitch!” Moriarty grabbed a fist full of curly hair and yanked backwards forcing the young man to look up into the black soulless eyes of the King Bastard.

 

“What happens?” Sherlock growled.

 

“Why they are punished of course! Any way I find necessary.” Sherlock gasped loudly as Moriarty leaned even closer and bit his ear.

 

This was so wrong! His stomach ached for the man to stop but he wouldn’t get off, he persisted grossly. Sherlock involuntarily shuddered as two cool hands slid their way down his bare back and clawed roughly at his skin.

 

“My dear, you’re shaking!” Moriarty laughed against the Detective’s wet skin.

 

“Get the fuck off me!” Sherlock struggled against his bindings but his efforts stopped when a set of lips met his, hard. His teeth clacked against Moriarty’s as he pulled back fiercely, only to be met with the same ferocity tearing through his mouth. A foreign tongue slipped vilely between his teeth and over his own plunging into his mouth, practically choking him. Moriarty’s fingers dug deeper into his back tearing roughly at his skin, his cries of pain only encouraged the tearing of his back into shreds. One of the bloody hands released his back and found its way to his chest clawing at the skin.

 

Then the hand slid agonizingly slow lower and lower, until Sherlock gasped and to his relief the hand stopped its descent.

 

Then Sherlock did the unimaginable.

 

He begged.

 

“P-p-please! Please d-don’t! Whatever else-b-but please-n-not again!” Weak tears fell down his handsome cheeks as he begged the man on top of him for mercy.

 

Moriarty pulled away and glared down at the crying Detective.

 

“Honey, have you broken already?” 

 

Sherlock blacked out after a hand plunged down to his groin.

 

 

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

 

“Hello?! Anyone in here?!” John glared into the foreboding darkness for any signs of life, he found none.

 

“Lestrade! Take a group upstairs with you! Go!” John kept searching through the rubble as he heard the screeching of stairs.

 

“Look through everything! Check every room!” John then turned to run up the stairs followed by the rest of the squads. He turned and kicked the first door he saw down to find 5 pairs of bright eyes meet his.

 

Five little girls.

 

He entered alone and shined a light at them, surprisingly the only faults he saw in them was the grime that covered their bodies. There was no blood, no bruises, and no malnutrition evident.

 

He smiled slightly to himself, he had been correct, this had all been a show to bring attention to Moriarty and Sherlock, and these poor people had just been sandwiched in the mess.

 

“I am not going to hurt you, come here.” John crouched down and holstered his gun encouraging the girls to come forward with wide arms.

 

One by one they stood and stumbled toward the man, he let out a sigh of relief when he had gathered all five girls frightened, in his arms.

 

“I have my friends here, they will take good care of you, go on.” Several paramedics stepped forward and scooped up the crying girls to bring them downstairs for an examination.

 

The process went on and on.

 

Next two women, then some teenage girls, then four men with a couple of twin boys.

 

It was incredible how many people were in this building, and they never seemed to stop finding them.

 

But disappointingly, with every step, every knocked down door, every man they found.

 

None had been Sherlock.

 

After searching the rooms again and again, long after they had been emptied, Lestrade stepped forward.

 

“John, I don’t think he is here.” Lestrade quickly looked to the floor averting John’s raging eyes.

 

“Well we better fucking find him then!”

 

“John! That is enough, he is clearly not here. We need to hold an investigation for where else they might have taken him.” Mycroft looked down at the short Doctor with a soft gaze. “But I swear on my life we will find him.”

 

Yeah, Mycroft. Dead or alive!?” John hurriedly pushed passed the two men to breathe the fresh air outside. He heard the slight cheers of the victims as they thanked him from afar, blubbering in relief and praising their Gods.

He needed a God right about now, he needed a miracle, and He needed Sherlock in his arms.

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

 

Another bucket of water startled the unconscious man to the living realm.

 

Except it was scalding hot.

 

He had screamed so loudly his voice broke and faded completely into a raspy gasp.

 

Eric grinned down at the naked, trembling man holding the bucket in his hands, protected by those leather gloves of his.

 

“Time for the fun!” He turned to an unseen man in the room. “Alex! Get him up!”

 

Alex faded from the shadows and gave Sherlock a sympathizing glance before kneeling in front of him and releasing his feet he then silently moved behind him and untied his hands from the chair.

 

Sherlock whimpered pathetically as Alex pressed his burned skin and stood him up straight. His every muscle protested after being cramped in the same position for so long, he stiffened and swayed and would have fallen right to the floor if Alex hadn’t been propping him up.

 

Alex urged him gently forward, his legs wouldn’t move, he was rooted to the floor frozen in fear.

 

Rising to his toes Alex whispered in his ear. “Come on, mate walk forward, I don’t want to force ye’.”

 

Sherlock quietly whispered back. “I can’t.”

 

“Enough of this! Get over here you skinny Bitch!” Eric snatched Sherlock by the hair and dragged him to the other room kicking and screaming before tossing him onto the table like a rag doll.

 

If they keep this up he won’t have much hair left, Sherlock thought.

 

He welcomed the metal table’s cool touches against his heated skin which had now begun to flake from the burns.

 

Sherlock’s body went ridged when he heard Moriarty’s voice crackle in his ears.

 

“This is just the beginning, Sweetie. Wait till you see what we have set up for you today! Handlers! Come and say hello to Pet!”

 

The door opened and in filed the men and women he had spent his last four years with in constant fear.

 

Half of them were being forced to commit these crimes to keep their families safe, the others merely for the sadistic joy. But all worked for Moriarty and had to remain loyal unless they wish to lose their lives.

 

“We are going to play a little game, dear.” Moriarty ran a hand up and down the Detective’s bleeding, scorched back.

 

“I either have my fun with you and you behave like a good little boy or I will kill everyone you love. John, Mrs. Hudson, your Brother. Yes, I know you don’t wish to admit so but you care for him. The rules are as follows: If you struggle, I punish you. If you cry or utter a sound, I punish you. If you speak out of turn, I punish you. You will not beg for mercy. You will not attempt to escape because if you break any of these rules. I will kill them in front of your eyes one by one. Understood?! Answer me!”

 

“Yes.” The Detective whispered weakly.

 

“Yes, what?”

 

Sherlock wanted to call this man so many bad things, wanted to see the life leave his eyes. But if sucking up his pride meant protecting John he would have to deal with it.

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

“Very good pet. Oh and one more thing before I have my fun with you. I will be making sure John and Mycroft are active participants in your punishment for leaving me. They will be watching this whole thing and giving me ideas along the way! Ooh, this will be grand! Let’s give Johnny boy a call, hmm?”

 

Sherlock laid his weary head against the table and held back the tears threatening to fall.

Rule 2: No crying.

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

John’s body had caught up to him, he had been awake for over twenty –four hours searching the web, papers and interviewing others who may have a lead. He was beyond exhausted and stumbled to the chair near the sleepy Lestrade and Mycroft.

 

Nothing.

 

Then his phone rang.

 

He stared at the screen, then looked up at the immediately alert men.

 

“Answer it, put it on speaker!” Mycroft urged.

 

John did so and placed the phone on the desk.

 

“Hello?” The soldier asked tentatively.

 

The voice he heard was worse than fingernails on a chalkboard, children screaming in pain. It was the voice of the Devil.

 

“Hello, John!” Moriarty cackled on the other end but was cut short by a cry of pain.

 

“Sherlock!” Mycroft bursted.

 

There was silence on the other end.

 

“Moriarty! What are you doing to him?! Sherlock speak to me!” John was standing leaning on the desk for his weakened legs screaming at the phone.

 

“Oh, calm down, John! I wish to make you and Mycroft a deal. Are you both listening?”

 

They both answered hastily, “Yes.”

 

“Good, now, I want you to open your laptop John. I know you have it. I sent you an email, open it.”

 

John opened the laptop and quickly went to his email account; he reluctantly clicked the email and was greeted by a video attachment.

 

“What now?” John yelled at the phone but no one heard since Moriarty had hung up.

 

“Press start, John.” Mycroft moved his seat closer to Lestrade and John to see better.

 

The video was being taken live according to the time in the bottom corner, after a few moments adjustment Moriarty’s ugly face came into view, he was in a plain black room, no signs to help them find Sherlock.

 

“Why hello John, Mycroft, Lestrade! John stared back at the tiny camera on the top of his computer menacingly.

 

“I am here to show you dear Sherlock! You will be helping me decide how to punish my little pet. You see, when he didn’t actually die like he promised me he ruined my plans. And I don’t appreciate when people ruin my plans!” He screamed before immediately regaining composure, “So I found him and kept him as my own personal pet, to do with what I pleased. Then he escaped due to some incompetent handlers.” He momentarily glanced somewhere off screen. “But now, I have him back, and he is to be punished for running away, and you are all going to help me! Because if you don’t I will blow out his brains.” He finished with a smile. “Here are my rules. I will give you a set of options and you get to choose what you prefer! You must watch every session. And you must not come looking for him, or I shoot him in front of your eyes. In one month’s time. I will leave him here and give you our location to pick him up. Now whether he survives until then, well, that’s your problem! Do you agree to the terms? Or should I kill him now?” He pulled out a gun and pointed it off screen, the camera panned back revealing Moriarty with a gun pressed deep into Sherlock’s already bleeding head. To all of their shock, he was naked and burned bright red; his skin had already begun to blister. Blood oozed down his face pressing his even darker curls to his trembling skin. 

 

However the most disturbing sight was his eyes that bore straight into John’s, brighter and more beautiful than the soldier had ever seen them, but they darted around frantically in fear and pain. The dark pupils the size of pinpoints stabbed directly in his verdigris irises.

 

“You have a deal.” John spoke. He would not let Sherlock die without a fighting chance, he just had to last one month, that was all. One month wasn’t that long right he would make it.

 

“We start tomorrow. See you all in the morning, Boys!” Moriarty grinned before the camera clicked off.

That was going to be the longest fucking month of Sherlock’s life, and possibly his last.

 

 

 

Author's note: Please tell me, if this was too graphic or if I could be more detailed. Be specific I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable!


	13. Punishment part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discalimer: All characters are to BBC 
> 
>  
> 
> Tell me if this is too graphic? Not graphic enough?

What could he do? What could John possibly do? If he went to find Sherlock, his death along with Sherlock’s was certain. If he called for help, dead. If he refused, dead. If he made one single mistake, dead.

This was not looking good.

“John?” Mycroft shifted in his seat.

“Yes?” John sat back into the hard chair and gently massaged his temples.

“Are you alright?” Mycroft leaned in, concern lacing his usual stoic features.

The soldier was taken by surprise; no one has ever really asked him that. It was a stupid question considering the position they were in, but a comforting one nonetheless. However useless the question was and even though the answer was evident in the sadness of his eyes it offered a small comfort that told him that someone cared.

And when the British government cared for something, nothing could stop him.

“Of course, I am the king of alright.” Mycroft did not looked convinced, so he pressed further.

“John, I will have every one of my men and women working on his case feverishly, until then all we can do is comply and hope he doesn’t die. You will not be alone on this case. And in case you haven’t noticed, I am his elder Brother. Do you honestly believe the great Consulting Detective didn’t pick up his tricks from somewhere?” Mycroft smiled at this, Sherlock was magnificent and no one could best him mentally, but he owed some of his skills to his Brother. Even though Sherlock didn’t like to admit it.

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

Sherlock shivered on the cold metal table violently, they hadn’t dried the water off of him and the low temperature of his new quarters was not helping. He groaned and rubbed his bruised head against the cold table.

Then an incredibly sharp pain stabbed him straight in his gut, leaving him gasping for breath until it slowly faded.

He was hungry.

No, he was famished, last time he had eaten was three days ago, he had been captured two days ago.

Sherlock wished he had eaten more than just half an apple, the painful hunger gnawed at his insides, twisting through his intestines and stomach.

How the hell would he last a month? He prayed that Moriarty would have the decency not to deny him a scrap of food now and then or just some water to weigh his stomach down and make the pain cease.

All his thoughts of food were swept out by the updraft the opening door caused.  
It was Alex, he had his mask off and Sherlock had a good look at the man.

It was evident Alex was younger than he, maybe in his mid-twenties, his tousled light brown hair stuck up in all directions, much like quills on a porcupine. His eyes were a light brown, soft and sweet looking. What was this innocent young man doing with the likes of Moriarty, the venomous snake?

“Hello, Sir.” Alex addressed the older man formally, he didn’t care for Moriarty, only the family he was protecting. Sherlock, obviously being the braver man deserved his respect, even if he didn’t look respectable at the moment.

Sherlock nodded fractionally.

“They will be coming to start the session in a few minutes, they told me to prepare you. Again, I am very sorry, Sir.” Alex reached under Sherlock’s shivering arms from behind and with as much grace as possible lifted the tall man off the table and brought him to the far wall where heavy shackles hung from their chains. He unlocked the shackles on Sherlock’s wrists and had to step on a tall stool to reattach him to the wall; he jumped off then stooped low and locked his ankles in tight shackles.

The Detective settled uncomfortably in the chains that stretched his long limbs, he was facing the blood-stained wall and was secretly glad he wasn’t facing the other way. At least he still had a scrap of modesty.

“Best of luck, Sir.” Alex turned quickly and left the room, Sherlock waited for what seemed like hours until the door opened and his handlers filed in.  
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~  
A red flag popped up on John’s email.

He had a new message.

Time for fun Johnny boy! Get Mycroft and your friends! Prepare for a show.

~M xox

Mycroft and Lestrade were at his side instantly, prepared for what they were to see.

John turned on his video camera and waited for the connection, he was greeted by a venomous grin.

“Hello, John, Mycroft, Lestrade. Good Morning to you all.” Moriarty picked at his nails absently.

None of the men dared to respond.

“Well, let’s get started with dear little Sherly!” The camera panned to the far wall where Sherlock was stretched tightly over the wall, even though the camera in the dark room they could visibly see him trembling, rattling the chains over his head.

“Stop all that damn noise, Pet.” Moriarty flashed an annoyed look at the shaking man.

He grew red when the rattling did not cease.

He sighed disappointingly and pointed to one of the handlers.

“You, punish him. Sherlock, I thought I told you. That was one of the rules. Don’t make noise!”

The man he had pointed to had snatched a riding crop off of the table and tapped it lightly against Sherlock’s back making him flinch in anticipation.

Then he bought it over his head and down on tender skin with a crack, over and over again, splitting the skin until Moriarty signaled him.

Sherlock released an unsteady breath.

“YOU FUCKING BASTARD HOW DARE YOU?!” John roared into his computer screen.

“Tsk, tsk. John, Did I ask you to speak? Punish him again. That will teach you all to keep your mouth shut!” 

John clamped his hands over his mouth as the Handler repeatedly tore at Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock bravely, did not udder a sound.

The rattling had ceased.

“Poor Sherly won’t have much left, and we haven’t even begun! Now you speak only when I question you. Understood?”

“Yes.” Mycroft uttered on behalf of the Doctor.

“So here is my question for this session. Shall my handlers use the whip, the belt or their hands? You have one minute or he gets all three.”

“What should we choose?!” Lestrade whispered frantically.

50 seconds.

“My brother has tasted a belt many times, I am sure he would handle that best.” Mycroft spoke sadly, defeated.

40 seconds.

“A belt would be best, hands can break bones, and a whip would cut the skin. But what if they use the buckles?” John felt the Doctor half of him bleeding through.

A silence settled among the men. But it was their best bet if they meant to keep Sherlock alive.

Then it was settled.

“Belt.” John spoke to Moriarty who waited patiently. He perked up at hearing this.

“Good choice. Handlers, get the belts.” Moriarty ordered.  
Three men stepped forward with the belts in their hands snapping the hard leather in their gloved hands.

“Begin.” Moriarty sat comfortably in a leather chair, sipping at a soda.

The first handler stepped forward, dressed like the others in long white coats, he was very muscular his body clearly defined under the garbs. 

He wrapped the end without the buckle a few times around his fingers for grip, the large silver buckle swayed.

John flinched as the first strike came down, welting the skin instantly. Sherlock gaped in pain arching his back to avoid any more blows. The berating continued for more than half an hour until the skin on his back ripped open, tears streamed down the Detective’s face. His body racked itself in silent sobs as he did his very best not to utter a sound or shake his chains. But he had failed miserably when a small almost inaudible whimper escaped. Moriarty signaled for the beating to stop and walked over to the sobbing man.

“All too damn soon, Sherly. You broke the rule, and that deserves punishment.” Moriarty sighed, exasperated.

“Hand that to me.” He had pointed somewhere off screen, then a small silver object was placed in his hand.

A lighter.

Moriarty roughly pinched Sherlock’s ear and pulled him backwards to his level as far as the chains would allow. With his thumb he flicked it to light a blue flame and placed the flame to Sherlock’s ear.

The Detective wrenched at his bindings but fell slack when he remembered it would only prolong his punishment.

The burning scent of his own flesh unnerved him and pained him greatly as he heard the skin sizzling. The young man bit his bottom lip to hold back a scream that was clawing at his throat.

After thirty seconds of agonizing pain the flame was extinguished with a soft click.

Moriarty released his pinching fingers letting Sherlock’s head roll slowly forward to rest against the cool wall.

He had passed out from the pain.

The Soldier’s heart ached for his friend, he wanted nothing more than to find him and hold him in a tight hug.

Little did he know he would never hug that man again.


	14. punishment part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing (besides this story) though I wish I did...

After Sherlock had surrendered to the sweet kindness unconsciousness bought Moriarty had cut the signal, leaving the three men alone in the dawn.

 

“Well, I believe he handled that rather well.” Mycroft stood and fumbled with the buttons on his vest.

 

John heard the words but hadn’t been listening and continued to stare at the screen, slowly becoming fuzzy with the tears threatening to pool in his tired eyes. He had never felt a greater pain then seeing his best friend in so much agony and suffering. John knew it wasn’t all due to the physical pain that the Detective had passed out unable to face the world. Sherlock was terrified; he had been trembling with the memories that had haunted his consciousness for all the years of his life in constant torment with his father and now Moriarty. The consulting Detective’s true personality was bleeding through his indifferent mask, a new terrified child had replaced the mad but brilliant Man.

 

If he did get Sherlock back, would it still be his best friend? Or would it be the man he has always been but without the mask that covered his past?

 

The soldier has seen dead bodies, children and women blown to bits, had to hold limbs to his comrades dying bloody bodies. He has seen men gunned down before his eyes, some of the bullets had been from his barrel.

 

But the deteriorating state of his friend was much worse to witness.

 

He would be better off dead then to return paranoid and injured for life. John thought selfishly to himself then realized the severity of what he had said.

 

He would be better off dead.

 

Why was John suddenly becoming so evil?

 

He shook the disgusting thoughts from his mind and just thought about how he would be there for Sherlock.

 

If anything Sherlock needed his support more now than ever before and John would commit the rest of his life if he had to for his Best friend, he owed him that much after all Sherlock has done for him.

 

I was so alone and I owe you so much.

 

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

Sherlock woke where he had slipped under, still chained to the cold wall now freshly coated with his own blood.

 

God, did his back hurt! He didn’t dare move and have the possibility of opening all the freshly broken skin on his back. 

 

The Detective stilled his trembling body as best he could to hear if any other presence was in the room but his muscles quickly took over and began to shake again.

He had heard foreign breaths. His mind went into overdrive trying to deduce by what he had heard whether the breaths belonged to a man or woman, smoker or non, old or young.

 

But nerves began to rack his body even harder sending him into a fit similar to convulsions.

 

Why was his body betraying him so? What was the cause of these involuntary out bursts that shook him to the core?

 

Was it the pain of the injuries? Perhaps it was the temperature of the room plunging lower and lower to freezing? He could see his breath come out of his nostrils in short bursts of smoke.

 

But a much larger part of him knew it was out of pure fear. A gnawing primal fright that made him visibly ill, he swayed in his chains and felt his stomach working against itself threatening to force any contents out of him.

 

No. Stop it. Come on transport listen to me. Don’t you fucking dare!

 

But his “transport” had bested him and he vomited blood violently, it ran down his chin and chest before dripping to the floor. 

 

****Then he lost entire control of his body, his eyes rolled back and he shook madly against his will.

He slipped back under the sweet veil of unconsciousness and let it lull and kiss him to sleep.

Alex was working hastily to get him out of his shackles; once his wrists were untied he lowered his bloody body to the ground and immediately undid his ankle shackles.

Alex had seen many seizures before, they ran in his family, but that didn't make the sight of one any less terrifying. The Detective jerked and twisted violently, his teeth clenched the entire agonizingly long thirty seconds

Alex rolled him onto his side and placed his hand under the bloody head, it had already collided twice with the concrete.****

 

Then as quickly as it had started, it had reduced to only slight twitching of the limbs and then stopped entirely. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to be able to get up and move on his own, to prove to himself he was in control now. But he was held to the icy ground tightly, Alex was much stronger than he had expected. Sherlock shakily attempted to push away but arms like iron fastened him to the floor.

 

“Stay still, Mr. Holmes. It’s alright. You just had a seizure so you need to stay still and breathe.” Alex stripped off his jacket and laid it on the Detective’s shivering body and gently rubbed warmth back into the cold body.

 

Alex looked down at the older man and frowned as he watched the Detective’s ribs pumping hard against the skin to breathe deeply. The first stage of hypothermia was setting in. The others shouldn’t be back for session two for another hour or so. Alex felt pity pull at his heart; it wouldn’t be much if he could clean up the man a bit, possibly warm him up.

 

But first he had to warm the freezing man, he gently picked up Sherlock, careful to avoid disturbing any of his burns or cuts. The Detective whimpered slightly but quickly clamped out the sound. Alex pulled Sherlock gently to a sitting position and let the man, cold as ice soak up his own body heat.

 

The curly head draped over Alex’s shoulder awkwardly from the man being so much taller than him. Sherlock began to shiver even worse as he slowly slipped out of hypothermia and settled at a warmer body temperature, still not normal but better than where he was and soon enough the shivering slowly lessened. Alex gave the older man a nudge once he noticed he had his breathing under control

 

“Sir, I should get you cleaned up before they come back. Eh?” Sherlock nodded tiredly into the Man’s shoulder making Alex grin before lifting the extremely tall man to his feet.

 

He let Sherlock wrap himself in his own too small jacket, still thinking about modesty.

 

Alex thought it necessary to get anything done that the Detective be comfortable so he fetched the pair of pants Eric had stripped form the man a few days ago.

 

“Here you go, sir.” Alex held the pants up to the older man folded up tightly, he took it gratefully and leaned on the wall to slip them on while Alex turned around and placed a washcloth in the bucket of warm water. After struggling into his pants Sherlock leaned against the wall taking in deep breaths to calm his frazzled nerves. Alex helped the Detective limp over to the nearest chair, those ankle shackles did a number on his legs.

 

Alex wrung out the cloth and gently wiped the blood from Sherlock back, but no matter how softly he massaged at the blood the man couldn’t help but grimace and tighten at the sudden pressure of his open wounds. He worked swiftly not wanting to waste a second; he wasn’t even supposed to do this and knew he would be in a shit load of trouble. But this was wrong. No human shouldn’t be treated like this.

 

Alex dipped the rag back into the water and wrung it out again, but instead of cleaning the Man’s face and chest he handed the Detective the rag to do it himself. It may restore some feelings of control, and it had the desired effect. Sherlock smiled up at the short man, just for a small second before slipping behind his mask and cleaning his face and blood stained chest.

 

Sherlock had just wiped away the last bit on his brow before the assholes walked in.

 

There were many more handlers than usual, and filing in behind them all was the King Gay himself.

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

John had been helping the other Detective’s figure out the possible whereabouts of Sherlock but was quickly interrupted when he heard a signal beep from his laptop.

 

“Mycroft! Hurry up! It’s him!” The other Detective’s quickly prepared their equipment to track the video. Mycroft had rushed to his side, taken a seat and waited for him to open the attachment, immediately Moriarty’s ugly face came into view. John heard the men behind him furiously typing to find the location of the signal.

 

“Hello, boys!” John felt ill at hearing his voice. It had only been two hours since the last session, if they kept this up Sherlock wouldn’t last a month, maybe a week at best.

 

“Well, here we are for another session of Sherlock’s punishment; he hasn’t taken it so well.” Moriarty sucked at his teeth distastefully. Sherlock came into view, much worse than before and still not in a thread of clothing.

 

Blood seemed to flow from every part of him, rolling beads of red trailing down his ivory skin. Dark black and purple bruises and welts were rising visibly against the light skin. His eyes were duct taped shut just like his mouth. John’s eyes took everything in and noticed something that made his blood run cold, long, deep scars ran down Sherlock’s protruding naked hips. Scratches only fingernails could leave. ***Moriarty swaggered over to Sherlock and ripped the tape from his now red eyes***.

 

If they touched him again. John sore on everything he loved he would tear the universe to bits if he had to too find Moriarty and whoever inflicted those wounds and in those famous words.

 

Skiiiiinnn them.

 

Sherlock looked straight into the camera and at John with pleading desperate eyes that told stories of raw emotion.

 

The soldier felt his heart break for the pain his friend was in. But he was quickly sucked back to real time when Moriarty snatched Sherlock’s face roughly and forced him to look into his eyes.

 

John didn’t breathe a word, not wanting Sherlock to get beaten for it.

 

“You know John, one way to hurt someone best is not physically. It is emotionally or mentally. Or even better both!” He had been speaking to John but had still stared into Sherlock’s raging eyes.

 

“And one of the emotions I like to play with in particular is embarrassment. Humiliation. Anything along those lines is absolute joy! So I am going to do something, to fully humiliate Mr. Holmes here. In. Front. Of. You.”

 

The soldier flinched at those awful words followed by a maniac cackle.

 

And his heart stopped all together when tears fell down Sherlock’s face.

 

 

 

Author's note: Please tell me what you think. Personally, I hate this chapter, I think I did terribly but that is to you readers to decide. I love your feedback so keep it coming! I want to thank all the reviews, favorites and followers. You guys rock! Too graphic? Still want more? Let me know, give me suggestions, advice, ideas, or tips? Whatever you feel like! I find it very difficult to write because I think of my stories like a movie. It feels weird to put it down in written form and get the emotions correct, so please tell me if I am making the transfer efficiently. Thank you all! I found some mistakes I made and showed where I edited with **** so if you want to read the few parts I changed feel free, if not, it will not affect your understanding of the story. 

Love, Lizzie.


	15. Flashback one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing but this story! Thank you for all the hits and Kudos! Tell me what you think!

Sherlock never looked away from those pools of oil.

He may not be allowed to speak but he could sure as Hell stare down those Demonic eyes, and sure enough long after the camera had stopped those slick eyes averted their gaze.

Sherlock : 1

Even in his worst possible state, bloody, bruised, exhausted, famished and as naked as he was the day he was born: he still managed to be intimidating. However the involuntary smile quickly vanished from his face when Moriarty had reared and bought a fist down onto Sherlock’s nose with a crack.

The blow had been hard enough to throw The Detective and the chair backwards across the room.

Sherlock lay sprawled undignified on the concrete floor, the collision painfully tearing at the broken skin mapping his back. The room full of people spun in painful circles as he pushed himself to a sitting position only to receive a kick in the gut that knocked him heels overhead backwards into the wall.

God, was that little Bastard strong.

 

“You see, Sherlock. No one makes fun of me. No one. I have spent these four years not getting my hands dirty so I could train for such a moment to come. I will humiliate you Holmes. For the times you have bested me. I can now best you.”

And with a dramatic flourish Moriarty swept out of the room followed by the “Nice young men in their clean white coats.”

Sherlock sat on the floor shivering, his heart beating out of his chest from all of the excitement as stars spun, pranced and danced in his vision.

What the fuck just happened?  
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~  
John had been leaning over the desk resting his heavy head on his arms. He hadn’t slept in three days, when Sherlock was captured. He had almost fell back into the tempting arms of dreams when a hand woke him.

Sally placed a cup of coffee in front of him and smiled shyly.

“Oh, Why thank you, Sally.” John took a tentative sip; he was very picky how his coffee was made. It was delicious and he suddenly remembered the many times Sherlock had attempted to make him coffee all those years ago and had failed miserably. 

A nostalgic smile pulled at the corners of his mouth when he came home from work on his Birthday to find Sherlock in the kitchen brimming with smoke, leaning over what was once a pan of cake batter. It had risen uneven and broken but the Detective still spread the cream over with a knife and reached for the small tube of icing to write John’s name followed by a Happy Birthday wish. The Doctor had crept silently to the kitchen archway not wanting to disturb the Detective for the time being. It had been a difficult task to not laugh out loud at how the young Man’s brow furrowed in deep concentration, how he steadied his right hand with his left as to not make a mistake. The soldier had nearly lost it when he saw a small pink tongue peak out of the corner of the Detective’s mouth. After what seemed like an eternity Sherlock proudly looked down at his sloppy, sideways and most likely inedible creation.

He was never good at baking.

The tall man rolled his shoulders back happily and grabbed the now cool cake pan to place it on the kitchen table, he turned on his heel and faced John with deer in headlights eyes. The large man went to turn back around and hide the gift only to slip on a slick of icing, he crashed to the floor bringing down eggs, flour and an open bottle of milk down with him. The cake that had tumbled out of his grasp had been bought down without mercy and landed on his head with a splat.

“Good, Afternoon John. Uhm. Happy Birthday!” Sherlock threw his arms in the air in feign surprise.

John, the stoic formal soldier had to kneel down and laugh his heart out for a solid five minutes. About half-way through Sherlock could no longer hide behind his angry mask and let a light chesty chuckle escape, which soon turned into a full out baritone blast accompanied by the light persistent giggling.

John had begun to realize that his abdomen could take no more abuse and he settled for lying on the floor and breathing deeply still drunk from laughing.

Sherlock didn’t dare stand up, now covered in eggs, milk and various colors of frosting. He made it to all fours and practically slid out of the Kitchen to where John lay sprawled on the floor still giggling to himself. He leaned over so he looked down at John’s face and expectantly awaited a response.

“Sherlock, Thank you for the cake.” John scraped a chunk of it off The Detective’s cheek with his index finger before placing the colorful mush in his mouth. “Absolutely delicious.” 

In fact it had tasted horrible, bitter with not nearly enough sugar. But lying had been so worth seeing his friend light up at pleasing John.

“It was my pleasure.” The deep voice rumbled low in amusement. John reached a hand up to the curly mess and ruffled it sending bits of cake, frosting and God knows what else flying across the room.

“But next time. Just buy me a cake, huh? Now go shower while I clean this mess up. Let’s go out to eat.” John had stood up and had already begun helping the slimy Detective to his feet. Sherlock had taken one step towards the bathroom when his bare foot coated in egg, had slipped out from underneath him. John had turned with fighter reflexes and caught Sherlock under his arms right before he would have hit the ground in a painful split. The tall man leaned his head back to look up at his friend who looked down at him in shock from the sudden slip.

Then they both smiled.

“What would I do without you, John.” His startling gray eyes flashed brightly.

“You would lose your manhood.” John winked and giggled before lifting the extremely lanky man back to his feet and walked him to the bathroom to avoid any more slips, the door closed behind the satin robe. John walked back into the kitchen and stared at the mess, he should be furious now forced to clean it but all he felt was bliss.

A sudden loud crash followed by a tearing noise and a yelp, John turned and ran to the bathroom opening the door quickly only to find Sherlock.

He was sandwiched in the tub short-ways, his bare back against the floor of the tub with his head bent awkwardly against the wall, his hips sat on the rim of the tub while his long legs bent back towards the wall by his head, his trousers were heaped around his ankles. He was half covered by the light blue shower curtain now torn to shreds. Thank fully he was still wearing pants.

He stared straight ahead with an angry look on his young dirty face.

“I slipped getting out of my trousers.” He pouted. John didn’t bother stopping his trail of giggles as he dug in his pocket for his cell phone and snapped a picture much to Sherlock’s horror.

“That is going to be the picture to send in the Christmas cards!” John slid the phone back into his pocket and met eyes with a very angry Detective.

“Just help me up you git!” Sherlock put his hands against the edge of the tub to push himself up but couldn’t get a grip on the porcelain.

“Oh, I’ll help you.” John stepped to the edge of the tub and placed his hand on the nozzle.

“You wouldn’t fucking dare.”

“Oh, I fucking would.”

“John, I will- AAAH!” Sherlock’s threat was cut off by the sudden blast of icy water on his heated body. He thrashed in the tub to escape the freezing water only to slip every time he stood, John had taken the opportunity to run and hide. Sherlock had finally fell out of the tub shivering and gaping like a fish he crawled out of the bathroom in his boxers not wanting to stand till his feet touched dry carpet.

Dry, non-slip carpet.

“John, you little fucker! When I find you-“ Once again his threat went unheard as a throw pillow landed in his face.

“You will never take me alive!” A small voice was heard in the far corner of the room between the chair and the wall.

Sherlock stomped over to the corner to find a little body snuggled in the extremely small space shaking with laughter.

“Right now I will take you dead too!” Sherlock hadn’t meant it but John didn’t know that right?

He reached down in the crevice and grabbed the little weasel by the hair, yanking him to a standing position with a howl of pain.

“Sherlock!” John called out before a hand clamped over his mouth and dragged him to middle of the carpet where he was thrown to the ground, a large bony body landed on top of him and began throwing punches.

John had seen Sherlock fight hand to hand and immediately knew the man was rough housing by his playful awkward hits. It didn’t make the blows he did catch any less painful and John fought back. They wrestled and growled on the carpet, tumbling over one another like children; Sherlock’s long limps were especially dangerous to the surrounding furniture, kicking over chairs and over turning tables. After a particularly rough tumble Sherlock had landed on his stomach with John straddling his back, the Soldier grabbed the Detective’s thin wrists in his strong hands and forced the Man’s arms far in front of him. John leaned far forward forcing Sherlock’s head into the carpet so he could keep his arms pinned to the floor. By now, over ten minutes of horse play has passed and both men were out of breath.

“Do you give up!?” John shouted into the closest ear.

A muffled, “Never!” emanated from the carpet just before Sherlock rocked his hips and arched his back backwards, stretching so his feet could wrap around John’s neck and pull him off his back and onto the floor. The lithe Detective quickly flopped on his back and landed on top of the soldier who cried out in surprise, “How did you even bend that way?!”

“Mummy put me in gymnastics as a boy! You will tell no one! Do you give up!?” Sherlock had been pressing down on the Soldiers chest with his full body weight, crushing the air from his lungs.

Before he could answer Mycroft had walked calmly through the door and simply stared at the two sweaty men on the floor. Without saying a word he turned and walked out, with a smile on his face.

A few moments after the door closed did Sherlock and John break into a fit of laughter and they didn’t stop until they couldn’t breathe any longer. They each lay sprawled on the carpet watching the other laugh and thought to themselves.

“My best friend is the greatest.”

John snapped back to reality with the sudden bleep of a message alert. How long had he been reminiscing? 

Well, it was nice while it lasted.


	16. punishment part three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Only story is mine!
> 
>  
> 
> More torture!~!!!!

John gave the signal to the tracking Detective’s as he opened the email, attempting to track Sherlock’s location has been much more difficult than originally anticipated. Moriarty was a computer genius and always seemed a step ahead of them, giving them viruses and shutting down the system whenever he liked.

The screen bleeped to life showing nothing but an empty, very dark room.

The soldier glared harder at the screen and soon realized the room wasn’t empty at all, it was completely filled from wall to wall.

With tools of torture. An electric chair with thick leather straps in one corner, in the other a (water boarding bed). Various whips, riding crops, shackles, harnesses and muzzles hung loosely from the hooks on the farthest wall. There wasn’t a window in sight, the entire room bricked up to the ceiling leaving not a trace of light, the only flicker came from four torches each perched in their own corner. A table lined up to the farthest wall with the whips on hooks: held hammers, three inch nails, knives, Tasers, and a large black box buckled shut with a lock.

Mycroft who had been staring silently choked back a sob, his poor baby Brother was in for it and there wasn’t a thing he could do to help him this time.

An unearthly cackle startled the Soldier and the iceman out of their skin, Moriarty melted from the shadows and slowly made his way into the dim light to be seen. A chesire smile stretched across his face, pools of soulless black bore into the men.

They stared until Moriarty blinked.

“My, we have a treat for you this round! Any comments? Concerns? Suggestions?!” Moriarty bounced on his heels with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets.

“Moriarty, I am begging you. This is the third session today. Please.” John put on his best begging face, it hadn’t worked. Sherlock had been kidnapped three days ago, the first day he had been unconscious, the second he had been bullied off camera, today was the first day for his real torture and this was his third session.

It was only three in the afternoon. Sherlock was incredibly strong for a lithe thin man, he seemed fragile but he was a rock emotionally and physically. But now in his weakened state, they all knew he wouldn’t survive a month. It wasn’t possible. Even for the World’s only consulting Detective.

Moriarty rolled his black eyes and called off screen. 

“Bring out my Bitch.” John flinched violently as Mycroft slammed a fist into the wooden desk, cracking and splintering the wood beneath his coiled finger. John felt cold terror run down his spine as he saw the rage boiling in the elder Holmes eyes. The intensity in Mycroft’s eyes was more potent then Sherlock’s icy stare, they burned with fire and froze with ice sending whoever caught those eyes into a burning freezing coma, unable to move or breathe. John looked away quickly and focused back on the screen, trying to remember how air felt in his lungs.

 

A heavy door off to the right opened loudly.  
Two handlers garbed all in white dragged a kicking squirming Sherlock who was screaming curse after profane curse to no one in particular. They bought him to where Moriarty stood and forced him to kneel, each handler placed a foot on ankles to keep him kneeling. Sherlock straightened his back defiantly pushing himself up as tall as he could against the strong hands at his neck and arms. Unless you had known Sherlock like John and Mycroft did you wouldn’t notice the slight change of his position, the subtle coiling of his leg muscles the tightening of his abdomen. Without warning, Sherlock threw his shoulders back and jumped to his feet, knocking the handlers to the ground he quickly finished the two strides to Moriarty. The Detective’s bloody hands grabbed the shocked man by the throat and lifted him high into the air, holding him far away from his body to avoid Moriarty’s flailing feet. 

“Now, call me a Bitch again!” Sherlock growled and shook the short man gasping under his fingers. 

Moriarty gulped and stopped wriggling against the Detective’s iron grip, Sherlock bought him closer until their noses were almost touching.

“I DARE YOU.” Sherlock’s low voice dropped another octave that resembled a Lion’s roar.

Moriarty clenched Sherlock’s wrist in desperation for air but the long fingers dug deeper into the throat until a crunch stopped Sherlock’s strong hands.  
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~  
The contortion of pain on Moriarty’s face made Sherlock hesitate, the crunch that had followed immediately after made him hesitate.

Then he reared and punched the man in the face, with a squeal Moriarty fell back and crumpled to the ground. Sherlock immediately dropped and bought down a hail of direct hits, fist after bloody fist. This entire ordeal had took all the time of seven seconds. Only when a kick to his back knocked the air from his lungs did he stop. The handlers were back on him dragging him away from Moriarty.

“Eric!!!” Moriarty choked and rubbed his bruised throat. The large man stumbled through the small doorway and grinned at Sherlock who was still wrestling against the two men.

“Come here, Boy.” Eric was huge in every way; Sherlock would have had to crane his neck back to look the lumbering man in the eye. He could easily top the scales at two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle.

And that scared Sherlock terribly. The Detective involuntarily shook as the large man grabbed him by the scuff of his neck and with ease pushed the thin man to lie flat on the cold floor.

Sherlock turned his head and shivered against the dark tile, the large hands gripped him like steel, cementing him to the spot. He shuddered as the hand on his back slid up to his neck, a leg slid over his lower back until he was being straddled by someone.

No, no! He wouldn’t let this happen again. He would not succumb to this again. What would he do! Come on, Sherlock! Think don’t let him do this to you. You are stronger than last time.

You will not be raped again. 

For the umpteenth time.

He pushed back those many painful memories of what his Father had done to him, snatching away his childhood and innocence at the tender age of six years lasting until he was sixteen, when his mother had walked in on the deed.

And she had done nothing.

She didn’t call the cops.

She didn’t help him.

She ran away and cried, closing the door on her way out leaving young Sherlock pressed deep into the bed begging to be freed but unable to escape his Father’s strong grip on his throat.

And it won’t happen again.

How many times has he told himself that?

The Detective arched his back violently bucking and twisting underneath the heavy man to escape those dangerous hands that gripped his throat in a similar manner as his Father had.

He bellowed and clawed viciously at any flesh he could find, sometimes catching his own. One handler ran to the table and unlatched the large black box pulling something large out of it and fiddling with the device hurriedly as the other one held down Sherlock’s arms.

But the fact that John and his Brother were watching him in his weakness was enough to make him sick, his tired body stopped fighting. He had over exerted his malnourished body and stopped struggling against the men. He felt his stomach churn roughly and his throat work against him as he dry heaved and coughed bile onto the floor.

Sherlock’s body had used up all reserves of adrenaline and found his eyes fluttering and fighting to remain open.

The other handler had begun cautiously approaching him with something in his hand.

What was that?

The Detective squinted.

Then all adrenaline rushed back to his exhausted body, he screamed at the top of his lungs and nearly knocked Eric off his bloody back.

The other handler grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked the Detective’s bloody head up to stare at the newly recovered Moriarty.

“My little Bitch. You should have known better than to bite at your owner’s hand. Say hello to an old friend of yours.” The evil twinkle in his black eyes made Sherlock’s breath catch in his throat as he realized what was in the large syringe in the Handler’s hand.

Morphine.

His old friend in those dark days of his when he had no one else to turn to, or to comfort him when he needed it.

“Don’t!” Sherlock gasped then said in a defeated whisper, “Please don’t.”

“Should of thought about that before you turned on your Master. I think you owe me an apology.”

“I am sorry you are such an idiot.” Sherlock snorted.

Eric grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and quickly snapped it back until the bone splintered with a crack.

The pain was so intense Sherlock merely gaped, after a few moments of shock the full agony was felt, a burning intensity that made him want to scream and cry.

“I have been very lenient with the rules I have set. So starting right now, they are going into full effect.”

But he shut his gaping mouth and held his lips together in a tight line.

Rule 1: No sounds, no screaming, no speaking, (unless addressed) and no begging.  
Rule 2: Do not struggle.

He didn’t want to imagine his punishment.

So he held the pain in with his tears.  
“Now apologize, Bitch.”

“I am sorry.”

“Say it.” Moriarty hissed in his face.

“I am sorry, Master.”

“Very good, Pet.” Moriarty crouched down and gently stroked Sherlock’s cheek. “Now, time for your medicine.”

The handler knelt down and placed Sherlock’s head down against the cool tile once again.

A hand was under his chin and tilted his head up so his neck was exposed completely. He held in a gasp as the needle slid into the artery in his neck, it remained still for a moment before the morphine slowly was injected into his body; the needle was slowly removed when the full dosage was given.

At first nothing happened, and the Handler who had administered it wondered if he had given the correct dosage.

Moriarty smiled madly when he saw the Detective’s pupils grow practically as big as the iris. Sherlock gasped as his body hungrily accepted the drug, letting it wash over him and drag him back into his blissful high.

“I had enough administered so the withdrawal will be especially torturous, but if you behave you will get your fix. I always care for my Pets.” Moriarty stroked the Detective’s head, catching his fingers in those lovely curls.

“And don’t think I forgot about our little skirmish. You wanted to fight me. And there will be a rematch. I am the Alpha. And you will learn your place.”

“Good bye John and Mycroft, thanks for tuning in.”

And with that Eric has stood and dragged Sherlock up hoisting him over his shoulder and carrying him to the wall to shackle him.

The Detective winced as Eric roughly manhandled his broken wrist into the tight shackle.

The drug definitely numbed his pain.

With the slamming of the iron door he was left hanging high by his wrists in the darkness enveloped in the familiarity of the drug that offered him what he wanted most.

To be numb.

So he let the numbness spread and grow, gently dragging him under, caressing him with warm tender hands.

He wasn’t hungry or in pain, he was in a meditative bliss, floating.  
So Sherlock succumbed to his drug. His only friend.

No.

John was his only friend, not this vile liquid.

He couldn’t fight it, the dosage was too strong for his thin body.

So he held on to the one thought that kept him tied to sanity.

His………  
………..best………friend……….  
John……Wat-

Then his head lolled forward and he gave in.


	17. Punishment part four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing!

Author's note: I am so so so sorry it took me so long to update! I have been traveling and working and attending weddings and online school and GAAAAAHHH! I made it a long one and there is another one on the way. I promise to never make you wait that long again. That was just mean. Please accept my apologies along with cake. I am just kidding I don't have cake. Well, actually I do. BUT I AM NOT SHARING! Please enjoy this! I hope you like it! Warnings for: Graphicness, nastiness and just....bleck. Plus a whole lot of feels. Please review my dearies! and Thank you for waiting patiently. and in some cases not so patiently......Claudia.....Holmes...Yes, I am talking about you.... :3 Love you girl! Tell me if I made a mistake, I have no beta and I usually write these in my free time which is four in the morning like right now! Love you all!

Love, Lizzie the not so Psycho Psychopath.

___________________________________________________________________________

 

Mycroft turned away from the black screen and covered his mouth to hold back a choked sob that made his chest ache.

 

My poor baby Brother.

 

Our parents being terrible beings, I had raised him, being only a child myself.

I raised my baby brother as my own, packing his lunch and helping him with his school work.

 

Not that he needed much help.

Or any for that matter.

 

But now this short bastard had hurt his baby brother, and he couldn’t help feel his heart ache for Sherlock.

The young man had already endured so much pain in his life that no one should experience.

 

And now he was being dragged through it all again, the torture, the humiliation, the weakness, the drug. Only one thing was different this time.

Mycroft wasn’t there to comfort his brother. As a child Sherlock had suffered many nightmares and when he would whine or cry or thrash in his sleep, Father would march into the room and beat him awake, out of the nightmare into a new terror.

 

Once, during a particularly bad nightmare and beating by Father, Mycroft had snuck into the room to check on his baby brother to find him in the corner of his room, stuck in between the bed and the wall caressing his jaw.

 

Mycroft had gently crouched down and came toward his ten year old brother who was shaking with sweat.

 

“Sherlock, let me see.” He placed a hand on the knobby knee.

 

Sherlock slowly and reluctantly lifted his head up and bared a toothy grimace, revealing a large black gap, he uncurled his small fist and held two bloody teeth in his hands. From his adult set.

 

Mycroft couldn’t constrain his anger and in a flash of red left a gaping hole in the wall the size of his fist, Sherlock had coward inwardly at the sudden display of anger.

 

Mycroft immediately apologized for frightening him and reached out to pick up the very thin Sherlock.

 

As part of his punishment for not coming to Father fast enough he was banned from meals for two weeks. Mycroft had constantly tried to sneak in food to his baby brother only to be ratted out by the eldest maid.

 

The two week punishment was 4 days from ending and Mycroft was relieved Sherlock wouldn’t have to wait too much longer for nourishment.

 

His already light weight had plummeted significantly and even though Sherlock was taller than Mycroft’s seventeen year old self he may have tipped the scales at seventy pounds.

 

Mycroft laid Sherlock gently on the cool sheets; he was weak with hunger and immediately began to drift in and out of consciousness.

 

“Mycroft!!!!” A lion’s voice roared, shaking the house. Sherlock darted up and would have run to hide in the closet if the elder brother hadn’t caught him and held him to his chest.

 

“If you are cleaning that little bitch up again or feeding him your backside will shine!!!” Mycroft felt physically ill at the feeling of Sherlock weakly struggling against his grip trembling and mumbling pleas violently.

 

“Leave us alone!” Mycroft bravely yelled.

 

“Now you both will get it!” The pounding of heavy feet up the stairs sent Sherlock into a sobbing mess, Mycroft rocked his brother and patted his arm gently.

 

“Sssshh, hush Sherlock, it’s alright, I will protect you. Once I am eight teen I will get you out of here, I promise. Can you hold on for one more month?”

 

Can you hold on for one more month?

 

That night both the boys received a beating of their lifetime leaving them both bruised and a broken collar bone on Sherlock’s malnourished body, he had been taken to the family Doctor down in the basement, transformed into a fully operational surgical room and clinic where the bone was reset and a flipper installed to make up for his gaping smile.

 

For losing his teeth, Mycroft had gifted his baby Brother with some change from the tooth fairy, that earned him a smile now filled with two fake teeth.

 

Just one more month Sherlock.

 

Just hold on.

 

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

Sherlock woke up in a cold sweat.

 

The dark room spun and swayed the wall warping as if breathing deeply.

 

He couldn’t deduce how long he had been unconscious but it had been quite a trip.

 

It had relaxed and calmed him, giving him what he had subconsciously hungered for, for years. He was able to ignore the pain in his wrist and back completely. He felt his hunger vanish and just felt complete and utter bliss in his numb state that tickled him and held him gently in this dark place.

 

But stage one of withdrawal was kicking in and he felt the sweat rolling off his body, the beads chasing one another down his back. The craving pestered him unceasingly.

 

More.

More.

Need.

More.

Desperate.

 

No, he would control himself, this was stage one and he could handle the craving. Then something else occurred to him, he had been asleep at least six hours, possibly seven by how much he was sweating.

 

Where was Moriarty with the next session?

Not that he looked forward to it, goodness no.

But he should have returned already.

 

He might as well catch up on some much needed sleep, even though he wasn’t the least bit comfortable he settled for his heavy head slumping forward and his wrists keeping him hoisted in the air.

 

This was not logical Sherlock, this was the drug hungry Sherlock who cared for nothing and no one, not even himself. He allowed himself to hang, not caring, he had the drug in his veins.

 

But not for long, logical Sherlock poked through and reminded himself.

 

You idiot, it will wear out.

Then what?

Then withdrawal kicks in! You stupid arse!

 

Last time he had undergone a medical withdrawal. Much less painful then cold turkey.

 

But he could handle it! He pushed down the feelings of the horrors to come, he was the great Sherlock Holmes! He could handle anything, he wasn’t human after all, a God in a human body. Or so he thought. Sherlock knew he was just a frightened child inside.

 

But behind every frightened child there was a monster waiting to come out, and it would soon emerge once the drug fell.

 

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

John was startled at hearing the elder Holmes cry out, he sat dumbly not sure what to do, but when another son racked the man through he stood up and offered his arms.

 

Mycroft tentatively took a step in and John did the rest, wrapping his arms tightly around the tall man, he knew Mycroft wasn’t like Sherlock. With Sherlock, John had been able to comfort him with nonsense words and just the sound of his voice alone would soothe his friend.

 

But he wasn’t Mycroft’s friend, and his voice wouldn’t have the same effect so he settled for just sliding his hand in small circles on the Man’s back.

 

After several more broken sobs, Mycroft stood up from his slouched position quickly; John released his grip and looked up at the elder Holmes and for a moment-

 

For a moment, he saw Sherlock’s face, but it vanished all too quickly, leaving him with a tear of his own to shed as he held on to that image in his mind.

 

“My Apologies for my outburst.” Mycroft tended to his tears with a handkerchief from his breast pocket.

 

“No need for apologies, you are human, after all.” Mycroft offered a weak smile, none of them had any decent sleep for the past four days.

 

Lestrade, who had been in the back of the room absorbing all this, stepped forward.

 

“I have my best men and women on this case. They will be needing supplies. They will venture out. They will make a mistake, and when they do, we will catch them. When the next video comes, take in every detail you can. One of them will slip.”

 

Mycroft and John knew everyone was trying their best, they knew that they had been searching the evidence relentlessly to the best of their ability.

 

But they all knew, even Anderson the idiot.

 

Their best, wasn’t even near what Sherlock needed.

 

He needed a miracle, but he had said it before.

 

He wasn’t really on the side of the angels.

 

And they weren’t on his.

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

Sherlock awoke another eight hours later to gallons of ice cold water down his back. He had sucked in a yell and simply made a strangled gasp.

 

It didn’t count as a noise. He was safe from punishment.

For the time being.

 

The freezing water hadn’t stopped berating his frail, broken body. Its endless spray found his face and clawed its way through his eyes, nose and open mouth. He didn’t dare struggle against his bindings, or shout for the roaring water to stop. He prayed for the attacker to find a scrap of human decency and shut off the spray.

 

And after two minutes he did.

 

Sherlock sucked in lungful after lungful of air greedily and instantly regretted leaning on his bindings when a flare of white hot pain shot down the right side his body, beginning and throbbing at his right wrist.

 

The morphine was wearing off!

 

All the feelings that had been repressed during the shock of being soaked suddenly crashed into him like a freight train, punching a gasp from him again.

 

His head throbbed with a stabbing pain that electrocuted him through to his feet, his nose began to run again and he wished more than nothing else to be able to wipe the warm ooze away. The craving was terrible, scratching him and begging him for more. He felt his heart beating a hard, uneven rhythm in his chest and Sherlock wondered if his attacker could hear it resonate through the room.

 

Then another horror tore through the Detective’s delicate body.

 

He was crying.

 

The tears rolled unceasingly down his cheeks, clouding his already blurry vision.

 

Sherlock blinked hard and shook his head, which re-paid him with a pain so intense he couldn’t force a breath to enter his lungs.

 

Astonishingly slow, the pain ebbed away into something milder, he could handle this.

 

As long as he didn’t move. Or breathe too hard. Or think for that matter.

 

How he wished he couldn’t think right now. Send him back into that dark abyss of his mind Palace that he hadn’t visited in years. It was cool and dark in there, comforting. Whenever the drug led him there he would be sat on the floor which enveloped him in a warm embrace that would cradle him gently, whispering sweet nonsense.

 

The drug cared for him, told him how amazing he was, how beautiful he was.

 

The drug was his family.

His friend.

His everything.

 

It had provided Sherlock with what he needed most. Something that needed him, but slowly he began needing the drug and it had no longer been a comforting presence but a nuisance that he had to deal with to keep himself normal.

 

As normal as a highly-functioning sociopath gets, that is.

 

“Wake up, Bitch! You are having your rematch today!!” Eric cackled manically as he strode over to Sherlock, blowing his sour breath into the Detective’s wrinkled nose.

 

Rematch? What the bloody hell was this arse talking about?!

 

Eric roughly unshackled Sherlock’s wrist and let him crash on his knees to the floor.

 

Sherlock gasped upon impact with the concrete and fell forward, instinctively reaching out with his hands to catch himself, only to receive an unimaginably shocking pain in his right wrist that knocked the breath from him and forced him to the floor.

 

Sherlock slowly forced himself to a sitting position with his left hand and took in his surroundings.

 

He was still in the torture chamber, and he was so bloody cold!

 

The freezing water hadn’t helped and he felt his muscles tighten in the blue tinted skin, he shivered involuntarily, whether out of being cold or going through withdrawal he wasn’t sure. Possibly both?

 

He slowly turned his head to the door creaking open, not wanting to disturb his pounding head.

 

Moriarty entered flanked by seven handlers all wearing blindingly white garments.

 

The Bastard sauntered over to Sherlock and ran a hand through the wet curls.

 

“How are you, My Sweet?” He cooed.

 

Sherlock gulped, unsure how to answer.

 

“Fine, don’t speak, save your energy for the fight. How is the withdrawal treating you?”

 

Fight? What fight? And, yes the withdrawal was a fucking walk in the fucking park you asshole!

 

“Get him up and get the boys online, I want them to see the Great Mr. Holmes pummeled to the floor.”

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

 

John, Mycroft and the rest of the team gathered around the computer and silently watched the soaked, trembling consulting Detective gather his snapped wrist close to his scarred chest. There must have been a screen projecting their faces back at him so he could see everyone watching him.

 

Sherlock scowled and self-consciously turned his naked body away showing them only his mutilated back.

 

Ice ran through their hearts when a voice as slick as oil and as hot as fire slinked through their ears.

 

“Oh, Sherlock! I thought I have taught you better than to ignore our guests! Shame on you. Greet our visitors.”

 

Sherlock continued to crouch on the floor.

Moriarty heaved an annoyed sigh and smoothly marched to the Detective, grabbing him by the greasy curls on his head and pulled him to his shaking feet. With a rough hand he clamped Sherlock’s good wrist and spun him to face the camera.

 

Fully exposed in front of everyone who knew him unable to do anything but close his eyes in shame, there wasn’t much a hand broken at the wrist could savage of his dignity. It hung limply at his side.

 

The others had gasped softly at the state of the thin young man.

 

His bruised and swollen eyes leaked tears unceasingly as did his nose, relentlessly oozing. Long scratches ran down his chest from his collar bone to his badly bruised groin.

 

He must have been kicked.

 

Several dozen times.

 

The Detective’s long alabaster legs shook wildly, John could visibly see his best friend trembling, the lines of Sherlock blurring.

 

The dark purple bruising on his groin spread down to his inner thighs, it deeply pained him to stand.

 

And not to mention the state of his knees, bloody with broken, torn skin that opened widely.

 

Those cold, calculating eyes that had solved numerous cases, that had stared down criminals, that had feigned tears to get what he wants, that had pinned John in that swirling beautiful vortex of colors, meshing and stretching in those deep endless pools.

 

Those eyes were glazed with shame, clouded with humiliation, tainted with pain and gummed with hatred for the man keeping him propped up.

 

John put a hand to his quivering lips and gave the most encouraging tight-lipped smile he could.

 

Sherlock’s mouth had attempted to return it, but one corner had merely twitched upward before falling quickly again.

 

“You see everyone? This is the Great Sherlock Holmes! Not as impressive as I had originally thought.” Moriarty glanced at the Detective’s bruised groin on the last part, making him squirm slightly under his gaze.

 

“Oh, don’t get all bashful. Too late now! Do you want to go back alive now? After everyone you know and care about sees you like this?” The Bastard leaned into Sherlock’s burned ear and whispered, “Naked. Bloody. Weak. Helpless. You are a mere kitten in my hands.” He pressed his sinning lips to Sherlock’s neck and jawline at each punctuation.

 

If looks could kill, the one Sherlock was trying to hold back would of committed genocide.

 

“So now, I am going to prove to everyone, just how weak you really are. You wanted to fight me earlier, and you will get your chance my dear. Just you and me. No weapons, us and our bare hands, you would like that wouldn’t you. Little slut.” Moriarty unwound a hand from Sherlock’s curls and slid it down to his hip.

John could feel the elder Holmes curl with tension, anger rolling off him in waves that unnerved everyone. Sally was biting back tears and leaned on Lestrade who looked pitifully at Sherlock, even Anderson, who was usually a jerk, stared at his shoes, not daring to look at the Consulting Detective in this state.

 

“Let’s get started.” Moriarty bit and tugged on Sherlock’s ear before releasing him, His knees buckled and he would have fallen if Moriarty didn’t tug him back up.

 

“I just make you weak in the knees, don’t I dear? Come now, fists up.” Moriarty let Sherlock stand on his own, wobbly on his legs like a new born foal.

 

The Bastard strode to the opposite side of the room and stretched, then he slowly, making a show of it, took off his shirt. Leaving him in his trousers.

 

The gasp that came from all of them was involuntarily torn from their lungs when they laid eyes on the man’s body.

 

He was completely ripped; a six-pack replaced what had once been a soft abdomen. His arms now toned and slightly bulging with muscle under the taunt skin, every muscle in his torso easily defined.

 

Sherlock glared down at his lanky, thin form.

 

He had the body of a twelve year old school boy.

 

Fuck.

 

John almost caught himself smiling at how Sherlock suddenly became so angry at his thin body.

 

Then Moriarty Balled up his fists and smiled.

 

“Get ready, My Pet.”


	18. Punishment part five.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing!

Author's note: So....tell me what you think!? I warn you, this is a graphic chapter. Warning for: Content, violence, blood, language. Yes, I use the word "queer" I do not intend to offend anyone, I accidentally did a few chapters back. Tell me if this is too graphic or you want more? I am still building, the worst is yet to come! I personally think this was a bad chapter....So I am sorry if I disappoint you readers, thank you for the reviews on the last chapter and please review this one with advice, critiques, ideas and if I make a mistake in any area, please tell me! I love you all! Youa re all awesome! 

 

Love, Lizzie! <3

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

This is absolutely horrid.

I am going to break his neck. I wish I could stand! Damn this stupid thin body of mine. Why didn’t I ever work out? Lift weights? Fuck!

 

Sherlock cursed himself as he stood on his own, wobbling on his feet like a drunken man. He cursed his scrawny form trembling with withdrawal. He cursed Moriarty and his damn muscles. He cursed the eyes that stared at him from the screen. He didn’t even care about modesty any longer.

 

That had flown out the window along with his dignity a while ago.

 

It was the fifth day, it was around noon. He had eaten nothing for six days; his concave stomach had stopped growling and resorted to cramping painfully, twisting and pulling him apart from the inside. Sherlock no longer felt hunger, only a thirst that made him willing to kill. His swollen tongue flopped around in his parched mouth behind dirty teeth.

 

He had his last fix sixteen hours ago. The craving had grown almost unbearable, one that clouded his logic and made him willing to do anything to get his next fix.

 

A sudden flash of heat knocked through him like a train, sending a burning heat through his aching bones and muscles that throbbed with a dull numbness which threatened to heave him over the cliff of sanity.

 

The Human body and its reaction to physical and substance abuse.

 

How dull.

 

He didn’t dare admit this was also a mental and emotional assault.

 

He still had his pride intact.

 

He was the Great Sherlock Holmes.

 

He was also gasping for breath on the floor.

 

Sherlock shook himself roughly from the sudden blow to the face, gritting his teeth he pushed himself upright with his left hand and stumbled to his feet on stilts for legs.

 

With his broken wrist pressed gently to his side he lifted his good hand and assumed a stronger stance.

 

Breathe in, Breathe out, don’t think about how he is going to kick your ass.

 

Breathe in, breathe out, and don’t think about your broken ribs.

 

Breathe in, Breathe out, don’t think about the withdrawal.

 

Breathe in, Breathe out, don’t think about the pain.

 

Breathe in, Breathe out, dig deep.

 

Breathe in, Breathe out.

 

Unleash Hell.

 

Sherlock leapt forward and caught Moriarty in the chin sending a splatter of blood up in an arc of red.

 

Sherlock:1

Moriarty: 1

 

He may be strong and bulky but the lithe Detective had his agility and speed, even if they were both shaken now.

 

Moriarty quickly recovered and sent Sherlock sprawling into the wall across the room with a kick to the gut. Before the Detective could blink, Moriarty straddled his shaking form and sent a hail of fists relentlessly down on his bones.

 

Two blows to the face and one to the side.

Cracked cheekbone and bruised rib.

Another fist to his side.

Rib broken.

An elbow reared and slammed into his sternum, sending a jolt of pain through his lungs that rocked him to sit up only to be met with a blow to his face again.

Cracked sternum and broken nose.

Two hands grasped and curled into his shoulders with sharp fingernails, he was shaken roughly for a minute and a half, his head occasionally smacking against the tile or wall.

 

Sherlock made not a sound.

 

When his eyes began to flutter and roll into his head, Moriarty paused.

 

“So soon dear? Why we were just getting-“He was cut off by a large hand to his throat, he clawed at it viciously for air.

 

The grip tightened around his neck.

 

Sherlock sat up digging his fingernails into the Bastard’s neck, drawing blood to its surface. The look of pain flashed across Moriarty’s features made a spark in Sherlock blaze.

 

He. Had. Him.

 

Forcing Moriarty to a standing position and slamming him into the wall behind him sent a ripple of what may have been the grim apparition of a smile across Sherlock’s bloody face.

 

Now, it was time for revenge.

 

Sherlock released his hold on the other man’s throat and with viper speed crashed his fist back to its previous mark.

 

As Moriarty trembled and gulped hungrily for air Sherlock crashed his fist into anything he could find.

 

His face. Moriarty’s abdomen. His chest.

First blow delivered cracks jaw, following hit dislocates jaw completely.

First three strikes weaken the bones till they shatter on the fourth blow.

With an elbow to the sternum Sherlock grins manically when a satisfying crunch followed by a strangled sob sends sparks of joy down his spine.

 

Now, this was how a highly-functioning Sociopath could enjoy himself.

 

This was his new high.

 

Sherlock kept grinning as he berated the shorter man.

 

Years and years of wrestling with Mycroft as a child, years on top of years of being abused had roughened and shaped him into a killing machine.

 

He knew where it hurt; he knew the best places to really send the human body off its hinges.

 

The Detective latched a hand to the back of Moriarty’s neck and bent him down; he fastened him in an iron grip and bought his knee to meet the wheezing man’s ribs and gut.

 

Then he did it again.

And again.

 

Sherlock lost count of how many times his leg coiled into the Consulting Criminal’s body.

 

Sherlock simply let go and the man dissolved in his hands, crumbling to the tile. Sobbing.

 

This weak little bastard was all talk! How dare he force Sherlock into a submissive silence when he couldn’t hold back his own tears?

Coward. Fake. Idiot.

 

The Detective loomed over the sobbing man who clutched his bruised, battered body.

 

A small voice whispered to Sherlock: Leave him be, you have done enough.

But a much louder voice screamed: He had you for four fucking years! What the fuck are you waiting for! Finish him while you can! Is this how you are!? Weak! Your own Father thought so too! That’s why he fucked you to the floor you little Bitch! FINISH HIM.

 

Sherlock reared and kicked Moriarty in the groin so hard he felt himself wince.

 

He hated his sexuality.

He hated sex.

He hated people taking what was supposed to be precious away from him.

He hated Humans.

He hated his Father.

He hated Moriarty.

But more than anything else in the world-

He loathed himself.

 

The Detective let every ounce of emotion he felt when he was being raped bubble to the surface.

Anger.

Confusion.

Terror.

Agony.

Betrayal.

Humiliation.

 

He remembered every damn day in his childhood he was forced to his knees.

Every minute his face was pushed into the alcohol scented sheets.

Every squeak of the mattress.

Every blow to his crying form, begging for the pain to stop.

Every fucking time his Mother had let him be dragged away into the bedroom for another beating followed by sex.

 

Sherlock snapped back to the present, staring down at the lump before him.

 

 

Then the angry child, the Monster inside him consumed his last morsel of doubt.

 

The Great Sherlock Holmes-

Shattered.

 

His only ray of humanity vanished in that second.

 

And he kicked until the handlers dragged him off.

 

They were ordered to not interfere.

 

But that had been before Moriarty lay on the floor in a pool of his own blood, curling protectively around himself to avoid any more blows.

 

The screen revealed the shocked and mortified faces of Lestrade, Anderson, Sally, Mycroft and John.

 

Sherlock didn’t give a fuck. He had done what he always wanted to do.

 

He had ruined Moriarty.

 

The dozens of strategically placed kicks to the crotch confirmed one thing for Sherlock.

 

Moriarty would never rape him again.

 

A grin of pure morbid satisfaction spread across the Detective’s bloody face.

 

For once in his life. He had won.

 

Only after he had caught his breath, Sherlock decided to look up at the screen and steal a glance of what they were thinking.

 

He expected pride. Or possibly even shock.

 

But he was met with faces drawn blank in fear, in terror.

 

They were afraid of him.

 

The monster inside him had bled through, and it was an ugly beast.

 

But a flicker of something passed over Mycroft and John’s features, only because they knew the Monster that dwelled within him. They were no longer frightened but understanding, a mutual understanding of why he had done this.

 

This act of violence had not proven how strong he was.

It proved just how weak he was and how easy it was to break him.

The understanding seemed to slowly seep into all of them, the concern showing on their tear-stained faces.

 

Wait, were they worried for him?

 

No.

They cared.

Those people, no matter how dull, how stupid, how thick they were!

They cared for him.

What was that called when someone cares?

Oh.

 

Oh.

I think it is called love.

But no one loved Sherlock.

He had been told so since the day he was born.

 

“Who would ever love a rotten child like you?!”

“Sherlock? Loved? Never!”

“Oh, Him? That ungrateful bastard! He should have died the day he was born.”

“I wish you were dead!”

“You are going to grow up to be worthless! You are nothing! You will never be loved because you are unlovable you bitch!”

“You are going to grow old and die alone. No one could ever love such a disgusting, stupid, queer like you! Get lost Freak!”

“Come here Sherlock. Come to your Father! I’ll teach you about the one thing you are good for. You make a great slut! Make yourself useful and make some fucking money with that pretty little face of yours, Whore!”

 

Sherlock sucked in a shaky breath as the words of the past swirled in his mind. He allowed his head to hang, he felt exhaustion tugging at him.

 

But another small voice told him to look up.

 

This time he listened and caught a pair of blue eyes.

 

John.

 

What happened next made the Detective’s cold heart stop.

 

I love you.

 

A trick of his eyes, he was seeing things.

 

John mouthed it again, slower.

 

I. Love. You.

 

Sherlock continued to stare.

John smiled up at him, a smile that sent a promise of love to Sherlock’s worn spirit.

 

His gaze faltered for a moment and flitted over to the other eyes on the screen.

 

Mycroft’s eyes told a similar story.

 

I love you, Brother.

 

Sally’s whispered softly.

 

I love you too, Freak.

 

Lestrade’s murmured a familiar tale.

 

I love you, you stubborn arse.

 

Anderson’s usual dumb expression watched him with a soft tenderness.

 

I love you too.

 

The agony coursing through Sherlock seemed to ebb away as he gaped back at his friends.

 

Friends.

 

The warmth that filled his heart and soul turned him red with embarrassment.

 

But this embarrassment he liked, it was the flattering kind that made him blush.

 

No one had ever loved him.

 

He was un-loveable.

 

But now he had so much.

 

He looked away from the screen and felt his skin prickle with a fuzzy feeling that tickled his bleeding insides, he could feel his bruised cheeks burn bright red.

 

He savored this feeling, this was new.

 

Sherlock turned slowly back towards the screen and took a long look allowing his bloody lips to stretch into a smile.

 

A genuine smile that ran through his body and soul entirely.

 

Then he mouthed.

 

I love you too.


	19. Punishment part six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing but this fic!

Author's note: Hello everyone! Alright so this chapter is quite terrible, lots of feels and rape, if you do not have the stomach for it, DO NOT READ. I warned you. There is a sick twist at the end, and I know this chapter is short, so I will be uploading the other half soon, I just thought I would not leave you all hanging, so here is a tid bit of the next mega chapter. It will be a long one the next one, I promise, so you may have to wait an extra day for the major feels, there isn't too much in this chapter, bu the next one will be.

 

In the haste of trying to tend to Moriarty and drag away Sherlock the camera was knocked off its perch and out of sight of the handlers bustling about.

 

The screen went dark for Scotland Yard but they heard everything.

 

The wished they hadn’t.

There were the silent sighs and gasps of Sherlock being dragged and pushed to the wall roughly, the clanking and snapping of shackles was heard accompanied by a painful gasp. Moriarty’s moans filtered through gradually becoming less and less frequent, suddenly he began to curse as he was lifted and carried away. The sound of leather slapping skin made everyone jump, the eerie silence that followed made them shake in anticipation until the next slap was heard, and soon the noises followed so closely together John wondered to himself if there were multiple belts being slung.

 

A different noise cut through the constant slapping and drew a gasp from Sherlock.

 

The whistling of a whip followed by a sharp short crack.

 

John felt a horrifying awe for Sherlock who was handling the beating without a sound, technically a gasp or sigh only counted as breathing.

 

The whip whistled happily before cracking against its target again.

 

The whipping went on for what seemed like hours, the rhythmic beat on Sherlock’s skin made John want to shut off the computer, but it felt wrong to leave Sherlock, for the Detective could still see his face on the projector screen.

 

And if the torture of hearing the Detective being sliced to pieces wasn’t enough a voice was heard.

 

“Wait, stop! I have a better idea!” A new voice, none of them were yet familiar with.

 

The whipping ceased and a sigh of relief was heard.

 

“What?!” That was Eric without a doubt.

 

“Guys, let’s just leave the man alone, that is enough for now.” Alex, the only one who was forced to still be in that death hole.

 

“Shut up! What is your idea man?” Mycroft could just hear the smile in those words.

 

“Let’s screw the Bastard! Moriarty can’t, let us do it!”

 

“Ha! I want first go!”

 

“Guys! Let’s go, leave him alone. We aren’t supposed to do anything without running it by Moriarty anyway!” There was a desperation in his voice, a raw quiver of defiance.

 

“What Moriarty don’t know won’t hurt him!”

 

“Like he won’t know Eric! It will be obvious!”

 

The third man cut in, “If you two won’t I will! Come here, slut!” The sound of the shackles being removed followed by a crash to the concrete and a strangled cough. A hail of hacking coughs followed, the shaky raspy kind that would not stop. To John’s trained ear he made a quick diagnosis, either Sherlock had an infection or a punctured lung, he didn’t know which was worse.

 

“Did you make a noise!?” The mockery dripped through the words. “Oh, you know what that means? We are going to have to teach you a lesson…”

 

“I get first go.” Eric boomed. The sound of scuffling soon followed by a zipper slowly being undone.

That simple sound sent sparks of terror through them all, Mycroft took a step back.

 

A loud smack rung through the air followed by several moments of silence.

 

A loud grunt made John tremble.

 

Oh, God, I can’t listen to this.

The grunt had not belonged to Sherlock.

 

Anderson sighed and began to swoon; Lestrade turned to him and sat him in a nearby chair before returning to the screen.

 

It continued for minutes on top of minutes until almost half an hour passed, the grunting becoming louder, the slaps following echoed through the room.

 

Lestrade felt a weight in his gut, an aching guilty kind that he could do nothing to relieve. Somewhere far, Sherlock was lying on the cold concrete with a heavy, disgusting sweaty man on top of him. He was alone, terrified, humiliated and in great pain.

 

And he was standing here useless.

 

John had wondered if they had realized the camera was still rolling. Just then as if reading his mind, the camera was picked up and pointed at a bloody heap on the floor, sitting in a big pool of crimson shivering violently.

 

Sherlock.

 

Sherlock’s back was beyond mutilated; it was a pile of mulch for skin, the muscles beneath it torn raw.

Large red hand prints burned bright red on his purple skin, ranging from his thighs to his face. He lay curled into the fetal position cradling his wrist, the amount of blood running down his legs and into the puddle he was floating in made John’s iron stomach twinge with nausea. Sherlock trembled so roughly he sent ripples through the pool of blood, his teeth chattered as he blew out puffs of hot breath into the freezing air.

 

Eric stood off to the side seemed incredibly pleased with himself. “That must have warmed you up! You are so damn stiff! Loosen up; no wonder there is so much blood.” Eric strolled for the door, sweeping a kick into the mush of Sherlock’s back on the way out.

 

The fact that the Detective didn’t utter a sound deeply disturbed John and the rest of the Yard.

“Come guys! Leave the Bitch alone.” Eric slammed the door shut behind him.

 

The nameless man smiled manically and strode out the door following Eric like a puppy.

 

Alex came into view with an expression of pure terror on his face, pulling down his features that made him look far too old. Mycroft and the rest of Scotland Yard could easily see the trembling in the young man’s hands as he made his way over to Sherlock’s shaking form.

 

He knelt in the fast growing puddle of blood and gently placed a hand on the Detective’s shoulder, he flinched violently, his whole body tense long after Alex withdrew his hand.

 

“Mr. Holmes. Psst.” He whispered and crawled around to see his face.

 

Alex gaped and simply stared in a stunned horror at what he saw, paralyzed by the bloody terror that lay before him, worse than anything he could have imagined in a nightmare.

 

The look of the desperate faces on the screen made him look up with shame for letting what had happened occur.

 

John felt his heart turn to ice when he saw Alex mouth, “ I am so, so sorry.”

 

Alex crouched down again to get a better look at Sherlock’s face, and Mycroft felt his frustration grow as he wished he could see Sherlock’s face and not his mutilated back. Suddenly Alex jumped to his feet and ran to the camera, a look in his eyes of defiance and bravery.

 

He whispered quickly, “You are a Doctor! How do I help him?”

 

John Mouthed, “Clean the wound then Stop the bleeding, apply a clean cloth with a light pressure.”

 

“What do I clean him with!?”

 

“Lukewarm water.”

 

John cursed at himself wishing he could be there, giving Sherlock proper medical attention with proper tools, they haven’t even made it passed the first week.

 

Alex rushed over to the hose and turned it on to a low trickle.

 

Sherlock stirred in his puddle of blood, he must of saw Alex with the hose because with a sharp inward breath he flipped over and crawled as fast as he could away from the threat.

 

Then they saw what Alex had been looking at.

 

Sherlock grimaced tightly and yanked himself forward with his left forearm, his head lifted unnaturally high as he groped his way around.

 

It took a moment for the rest of Scotland Yard to get the hint.

 

But John noticed the second his eyes met Sherlock’s.

There was something wrong with his eyes, his posture, his frantic groping. He hadn’t fled in desperation because he had seen Alex with the hose.

 

He had heard the trickle of water on the concrete.

John’s fears were confirmed in that instant.

 

That heart-wrenching second when he realized things would never be the same at 221B Baker street.

 

John had accepted that Sherlock would never come home whole or even alive. He realized that he would never share tea with him again or hear his beautiful yet slightly annoying pulls of the violin at four in the morning. He would no longer read those mysterious texts while he was at work. John wouldn’t be running with that long wavy coat down the alley ways of London. The Soldier wouldn’t hear the deductions of a brilliant man roll from the Detective’s mouth like a rehearsed song. With a shaky breath he let the realization knock through him and tear his already shattered heart apart.

 

When Moriarty had said, “I will burn the heart out of you.”

 

John had misinterpreted.

 

The threat wasn’t for Sherlock.

 

It was for John.

 

Because as the Soldier sat in that chair he felt his heart go up in flames, scorched by the fires of hate from one man. He had seen his friends explode before his eyes, seen torture, violence, hatred, and fear war had bought and prepared him for.

 

Fear is what he felt most of all in those long days and frightening nights, most of all, fear for himself, fear for his life, and then fear for Sherlock every time they went on a dangerous case.

 

But no matter what he had seen, felt, or heard in the war none of it could compare to the agonizingly painful understanding of what he just witnessed. The obvious reality that lay before him behind the glazed eyes of his best friend.

 

Sherlock Holmes.

 

The Great Sherlock Holmes crawled desperately away from the threatening noise in terror.

 

Completely and utterly-

 

Blind.


	20. Punishment part seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing but this story.

Author's note: I would like to inform you that this is a flashback chapter all from Sherlock's POV. It may be confusing and I apologize. But you are all a clever bunch and will surely follow. Warnings for mentions of rape, torture, gore, language. Rated M. Another thing!

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

 

Drowning. Looping. Memories. No. Visions. Swirling. Focusing. Drifting. Meshing. Fading. Colors. Euphoria. Pain.

 

Throbbing.

Harsh.

Pounding.

Pain.Pain.Pain.

 

At least it’s better than feeling numb,

 

I’d rather feel pain than nothing at all.

 

But, God does it hurt.

 

My damn head! My Palace is caving in, the bricks crumbling falling away and tumbling into black nothingness.

 

All my thoughts are swirling, As soon as I grasp one it leaks through like water through fingers.

 

I catch it!

 

It’s gone!

 

I am cold.

 

My God am I cold! I can’t feel my feet, where did they go!?

 

Feet? Come back! Feet! Don’t leave, where have you gone? Please come back feet!

 

 

I am going fucking insane.

 

It’s the drug, making me crazy.

 

Yes, that is it. It is the Drug. The morphine. Maybe if I think of something I can come through the withdrawal easier.

 

Hungry. Food. Gnawing hunger eating away at me.

 

Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits. Yum.

 

John’s lasagna. Double yum.

 

Oh God this is making it worse!

 

Okay, don’t think of food.

 

Water.

 

Parched mouth. Swollen tongue. Dry throat.

 

Water.

 

Drip.

Drop.

Now I am thirstier!

 

There is nothing else to think of. THIS ROOM IS DULL. THE PAIN IS DULL. NO NEW CASES.

 

IT IS SO FUCKING DULL.

 

Songs?

 

Do I know any songs?

 

Uhm.

 

Hmmp.

 

Come on brain, surely you have some entertainment.

 

“I have got a lovely bunch of coconuts-“

 

No! Bloody hell no!

 

“I love rock-n-Roll-“

 

What the fuck am I doing! I am English!

 

“And I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more-“

 

Did someone open a door?

 

It’s too dark, I can’t see!! Is there someone there?

 

No. I am imagining.

 

Wait!

 

Is that breathing! Oh, God there is someone here.

 

No, there are several.

 

 

“Wake up, Bitch! You are having your rematch today!!” 

 

 

I wasn’t sleeping you stupid, arrogant, disgusting, appalling-

 

MY FUCKING KNEES.

 

WRIST.

 

Oh.

That really hurt.

 

Where was I?

 

Oh.

 

Hideous, mangy, cowardice-

 

Who is touching me?

 

Moriarty.

 

If you don’t move your hand I will bite it off.

 

That’s better.

 

I have to get away from their staring, this is getting awkward. He said he was going to fetch the camera. Might as well collect myself first.

 

Oh, God, It is on.

 

I can’t let John see my face.

 

Or the rest of me.

 

What if the others are watching!?

 

No. They aren’t.

 

Please don’t let them be watching.

 

Ow, my hair! OW OW OW OW OW OW OWWWWW!

 

Of course everyone is watching.

 

Moriarty, could you pull any harder?

 

SHIT!

 

Apparently yes.

 

Dear God, they are examining me. Oh, goodness, no. Stop looking at me you Morons!

 

What is he even saying? Ugh, My head hurts too much to even know.

 

Woah, Don’t drop me!

My legs! Oh I can't stand!!!! Easy, get your balance, Oh, God! My legs won't work!! Wait, There, I got my footing. Much better.

Well, isn’t this prideful, stumbling around like an idiot.

 

Why is he taking his shirt off?

 

Oh.My.God.

 

Is he on steroids?!

 

I knew I should have lifted weights in university.

 

Okay Sherlock.

 

He may be stronger.

And buffer.

And bigger.

 

But you are faster! Agile? Possibly more stamina.

Fists up you git!

Damn it! Ow, come on, get up, fight.

Now, wait for the right moment to-

POUNCE!

 

Ooh, did that feel good! Right in the-OOoof.

 

Two blows to the face and one to the side.

Cracked cheekbone and bruised rib.

Another fist to his side.

Rib broken.

An elbow reared and slammed into his sternum, sending a jolt of pain through his lungs that rocked him to sit up only to be met with a blow to his face again.

Cracked sternum and broken nose.

Two hands grasped and curled into his shoulders with sharp fingernails, he was shaken roughly for a minute and a half, his head occasionally smacking against the tile or wall.

My head! Oh I am seeing spots! That surely can't be good. 

Gotcha!

“So soon dear? Why we were just getting-“He was cut off by a large hand to his throat, he clawed at it viciously for air.

 

The grip tightened around his neck.

 

Sherlock sat up digging his fingernails into the Bastard’s neck, drawing blood to its surface. The look of pain flashed across Moriarty’s features made a spark in Sherlock blaze.

 

He. Had. Him.

 

Forcing Moriarty to a standing position and slamming him into the wall behind him sent a ripple of what may have been the grim apparition of a smile across Sherlock’s bloody face.

 

Now, it was time for revenge.

 

My right eye, I can't see.

 

I CAN'T BLOODY SEE.

 

Where is he? 

Oh, yes.

Take this you Bastard.

 

Sherlock lost count of how many times his leg coiled into the Consulting Criminal’s body.

 

Sherlock simply let go and the man dissolved in his hands, crumbling to the tile. Sobbing.

 

My left..Oh no. Don't fail me! No please!

Damn it Blink! See! Come on!

That is it, okay.

I only lost my right. Head trauma. That's all, it should return, I still have my left.

I am scared.

I am so scared!

John please come soon.

Help me.

Oh, I wish you could hear my thoughts! Please!

 

A small voice whispered to Sherlock: Leave him be, you have done enough.

But a much louder voice screamed: He had you for four fucking years! What the fuck are you waiting for! Finish him while you can! Is this how you are!? Weak! Your own Father thought so too! That’s why he fucked you to the floor you little Bitch! FINISH HIM.

Moriarty.

I will ruin you!! You good for nothing Bastard!

This is for everyone who has hurt me!

For every time I was called a freak!

Every day Father and his stinking breath came near me!

Every Present less Christmas.

Every damn time.

I am not a Psychopath!

I am not a sociopath!

I am not a freak!

I am Sherlock Holmes!

And I need nothing.

I need-

I need John.

John, where the bloody hell are you!

I am growing lost without my Blogger.

John, Why are you looking at me that way?

Mycroft? Lestrade? All of you!

I am not a Monster! Damn you all stop patronizing me! I AM NOT A MONSTER! I AM NOT.

I am scared.

Terrified. Frightened. In agony!

Oh, please don't look at me that way John!

Not you. 

You are my friend.

“Who would ever love a rotten child like you?!”

“Sherlock? Loved? Never!”

“Oh, Him? That ungrateful bastard! He should have died the day he was born.”

“I wish you were dead!”

“You are going to grow up to be worthless! You are nothing! You will never be loved because you are unlovable you bitch!”

“You are going to grow old and die alone. No one could ever love such a disgusting, stupid, queer like you! Get lost Freak!”

“Come here Sherlock. Come to your Father! I’ll teach you about the one thing you are good for. You make a great slut! Make yourself useful and make some fucking money with that pretty little face of yours, Whore!”

Look at the screen.

What?

Look at the screen you arse.

I love you.

...

I.LOVE.YOU.

John?

Mycroft?

Lestrade?

Sally?

You too Anderson?

No, I am imagining.

Head trauma. Blindness in my right eye.

NO!

Spots in my left! Get out! GET OUT! 

Shadows, cloudy, thick.

It's getting harder to see.

Everything is fuzzy!

Focus. Focus on something.

John.

His eyes.

His blue eyes.

Focus on his blue eyes.

I guess if this is the last thing I see I might as well tell him what I am feeling.

I love you too.

Don't flicker please, No!

Blackness.

Is this what pitch black is?

How dull.

Absolutely void of color.

Where are they leading me!?

Shackles.

Okay.

Fuck! My wrist!

Wait, what was that?

Was that a-

BELT!

Oh, don't scream.

DO NOT SCREAM, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT.

Keep it together, Holmes.

A belt is nothing new.

Go to your Mind palace, just separate.

 

 

Oh, Yeah.

 

MY BLOODY PALACE IS FALLING.

 

Just deal with the pain. It is not that-

 

Whip.

 

Oh, God they have a -

Shit!

Alright, hush, it's no big-

Damn it!!!!

Ooh, that hurts!!!

 

I can't feel it too much anymore Wonder why 

 

Oh, thats right head trauma.

 

Ugh...

 

My head

 

Why am I on the floor

so much blood

 

my blood

 

my legs are sore

 

my b ack is sore

 

My-

 

No

that did not happen

 

NO

NO

NO 

NO!!!

 

I let it happen again.

 

THEY DID IT TO ME AGAIN!!!!

 

BASTARDS

SWINE

 

I am disgusting.

It's because I am no good. That's why they did it.

I am swine.

I am gross.

I am worthless, nothing.

No wonder I always get this.

 

Are they still here?

WAIT

What is that

Water

dripping

water

drowning

Get away

NOW

Where is it coming from!

Turn on to your stomach

SHIT.

My God. It hurts! I can't do this.

 

Wimp.

 

Crawl.

 

I am torn, my insides are torn to bits, It's like fire!!!

 

John, please help me.

 

I need you.

John, please.

Mycroft!

Mycroft help me! He is going to hurt me!

 

Some one help me.

 

I am scared.

I am alone.

 

 

Please.


	21. Punishment part eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing but this story!

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

Mycroft screamed.

 

Startling everyone in the room, Alex who stared at the screen in shock and especially Sherlock who was frightened to his feet.   
John was on his feet and by the older Holmes side, not knowing what to do but stand awkwardly and watch as Mycroft flew into a rage, bringing his fists to the wall with a loud bellow followed by a painful sounding crunch. He let his fists slide tiredly down from where they had hit, leaving two cracked large dents in the wall. The man’s head lolled forward and he let it, not entirely gently, rest on the wall. His breathing coming in and leaving in short, shaky, shallow gasps as his shoulders jerked upward with each struggling breath.  
Seeing his Brother, crawling on the floor, groping frantically for something he could hold. Something he could feel, have control and a tie to reality.   
Understanding that his Brother was now more vulnerable than ever before made his entire being quake with nausea.  
A sudden hand on his shoulder bought him back to reality violently, he gasped from the sudden overflow of thoughts.  
John.  
“Once again, my apologies for my undignified behavior.” Mycroft self-consciously fixed his tie.  
Just then he noticed all eyes but Sherlock’s trained on him.  
Worry.  
Concern.  
Understanding.  
Pity.  
And then those unseeing eyes, dashing about, desperately seeking something to see.  
He felt a lump forming in his throat, but quickly swallowed it down.  
No time for caring.  
Caring is a disadvantage.  
And now, Mycroft knew why.  
Caring led to pain.  
He settled back down in the chair, sighing long and softly, releasing all his emotions with it.  
Much better, he had to be calm. For his Brother’s sake.

All eyes, slowly left him and focused on his Brother who was at the moment slowly retreating to the far side of the room, stumbling and back pedaling away from the advancing Alex who was desperately doing his best to console the terrified man.  
“Mr. Holmes, it’s me, Alex. I am trying to help you. Please come here.” He spoke low enough to be gentle but loud enough to be heard.

Sherlock backed even further, roughly slamming his back into the cold wall behind him; he gaped in shock and pain before quickly clamping his mouth shut.  
Sherlock slid his good hand quickly over the surface of the wall behind him, searching for something, anything.  
Alex crept forward, making enough noise to be heard so Sherlock could easily track his movements.  
It didn’t help.  
As soon as Alex laid his hand on the Detective’s shoulder, he flinched violently away from the touch and collapsed on the floor to escape.  
Alex followed and sat on his haunches speaking softly.  
“Mr. Holmes, there is no one else here, just you and I. Calm down, I am not here to hurt you. And I am sorry they did hurt you. Come along. I am going to clean you up a bit, I doubt you are comfortable.”  
After a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock reached out slowly then quickly withdrew his hand when it found Alex’s. He attempted again, forcing himself not to shy away.  
“There you go, mate. That’s it.” Alex slid his hand up Sherlock’s arm and to his shoulder and placing his other hand in Sherlock’s.

“Now you are going to have to stand up, I’ll help ya’.”  
Slowly and carefully Alex helped the Detective to his shaky feet, gently keeping him propped against the wall until he had his balance.  
“Now I need you to walk forward a bit.” Alex gave a slight tug and began to lead the reluctant Holmes closer to the hose.

Sherlock shuffled hesitantly, not completely trusting the man leading him. But this was the horror of being impaired; he must rely on the people around him to care for him.  
And he hated feeling so obligated to follow.

Suddenly Alex stopped pulling and instead began lowering Sherlock to sit on the floor.  
Sherlock tentatively reached out an exploring hand to find if there was anything in front of him, his fingers met a chair and he slowly pulled himself towards it, leaning on it heavily.  
The exhaustion was kicking in.

Sherlock hadn’t slept for four days now. He felt the sluggishness in his limbs, the heavy weights for eyelids, he wanted to sleep terribly but he couldn’t for fear of being punished or the pain he was in.  
He had almost drifted when a sudden trickle of water down his sore back bought him to.  
A tad too quickly.  
The lithe Detective bucked and arched his back painfully away with a gasp pulling from his open mouth.  
“Sorry, Sir. Easy does it.” Alex kneeled directly behind Sherlock and gently lowered his head back down to the seat of the chair, holding him firmly by the back of his neck.  
“I have to clean you up or you will get an infection, doubt you want any of those.” Alex finished with a chuckle before returning the trickle back to the mulch for muscle.  
Shudders visibly racked the thinning man’s frame, slowly becoming less and less frequent until Sherlock was able to with-stand the light stream.  
Alex tutted to himself, no matter how many minutes he let the water run over Sherlock’s back, more blood melted to the surface, running down the ripped crevices of skin before pooling on the floor beneath them and winding like a snake to the drain in the middle of the floor.  
He let the water trickle over his own hand in an attempt to clean it before gently placing it on Sherlock’s raw back.

“Easy does it,” Alex whispered to the man beneath his fingers that began to tremble with effort from holding back the pain.  
Alex gently yet firmly ran his hand through Sherlock’s skin, dislodging any tough debris and hoping to better clean the wound. The Detective held in the screams by biting his lower lip to the point of bleeding.

After what seemed like hours, the water was shut off and Sherlock leaned heavily on the chair in front of him, chest heaving with painful, controlling breaths. Sherlock sighed in relief knowing some of the remnants of that disgusting man were off him, his body felt less appalling and he settled slightly, a little bit more comfortable in his injured skin.  
“I am going to dry you off now, Sir.” Suddenly, a warm, clean cloth was draped over Sherlock’s back and with gentle fingers was patted down to soak the rising blood.  
A familiar voice made Sherlock lift his heavy head, “Alex, you need to put down pressure to stop the bleeding.” The voice was strained with what sounded like pain and pity.  
Sherlock’s analysis of John’s tone was cut short by a hard pressure to his back that forced a yelp from him, he couldn’t suppress it and immediately collapsed to the concrete. Another shout broke free as he jarred his wrist, which now bent and twisted at an unnatural angle. John felt tears in his eyes as Sherlock curled in on himself, preparing to be punished for making noise.

“I am not gonna hurt ye’ mate!! Easy, I need to stop the bleeding.” The Detective had turned his back away from Alex to avoid the unwanted touch.  
Sherlock covered his face with his right forearm and his nudity with his left hand.

The poor thing still, in all this pain, is worried about his nudity in front of his friends.  
John guessed it was mostly to hide from Sally.  
Sherlock was strange in that way.  
Alex cautiously crawled around to the quivering Detective’s back and snaked an arm under Sherlock’s, gently pulling the bleeding man to rest on his lap.  
Sherlock stiffened as he was draped across what felt like a pair of legs, he was turned on to his stomach in quite an indignant fashion.  
Alex carefully looped an arm across the Detective’s shoulders and underneath his right arm, holding him down tightly before pressing the cloth down firmly with his right hand. Sherlock couldn’t control the scream that was viciously ripped through his throat, nor could he control his kicking legs and arching back as he struggled against the painful hand at his flesh.  
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~  
Sally turned and buried her features in Lestrade’s shoulder; he stared unblinkingly at his collea- Friend, as he struggled against the man trying to help him.  
Anderson, no matter how desperately he wanted to, couldn’t turn away from that sight. Guilt and grief pulled at his heart for every nasty remark, every sneer, every terrible name he ever called Sherlock. He wished he could take it all back.

Mycroft blinked hard to push back the tears threatening to fall at seeing his baby Brother in so much pain. No, Sherlock was more than that to him, he was his baby. Mycroft had been the one to raise Sherlock when he could. A paternal instinct in him was boiling to the surface, all those years he tried to deny that one true fact. Sherlock was like a son to him. A best friend. A brother. Some big brother he was! Letting them take Sherlock, doing terrible things to him and this time, he was just as useless to him as he was as a child, when their Father was the abuser.

John knew this was necessary, the blood had to be stopped and the infectious skin cleaned. But that didn’t make the process of watching in the sidelines and feeling useless hurt any less. To see Sherlock restrained and forcibly cleaned in his drugged, crazed, painful and blinded state made John wish it was him in that cellar and Sherlock safe by his Brother’s side. John would give his life without a moment’s hesitation just to die, knowing Sherlock was safe. John didn’t want to imagine what punishment was ready for Sherlock next, especially since he had broken all of the rules. The soldier felt bile rising into his throat as he gazed at the struggling, crying, screaming, bloody man on the ground.  
“Have you tracked the signal yet?!!” John stood and quickly walked to the far end of the room where Mycroft’s men were working to find the signal of the camera capturing the horror.  
“No, sir.”  
John rubbed his face before returning to the screen to see Sherlock sobbing and quaking, kicking out and twisting in the other man’s arms.

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

Sherlock was growing more difficult to handle by the second; he was slipping into shock from the loss of blood, his screams growing louder against his will. He knew the consequences of his behavior but his body wouldn’t heed him, limbs lashed out and screams echoed through the room.

“That’s enough, sir, easy, take it easy.” He whispered.  
Alex realized what he had to do, he didn’t like the idea in the least bit, but knew it was the only effective way of getting the man to calm down or rather be stunned into silence.  
Alex reluctantly leaned down close to the Detective’s ear and roared, “I SAID THAT IS ENOUGH!”

Sherlock’s entire body jerked before going rigid, his breathing hitched as he choked back a frightened sob: the only move-ment he made was a slight shivering in the freezing air.  
He had successfully terrified the man into submission and it felt awful.  
The looks he was receiving from the screen made him even more uncomfortable, what they must be thinking of him now.

But when he reluctantly looked up his eyes were met with those filled with pity and a sick understanding, if Sherlock contin-ued the other handlers would come in and beat the shit out of him. At least in the tense silence, in the darkness behind open eyes, in the vice grip of fear Sherlock could at least be tended to.

Alex held the man to his lap firmly and continued to press the cloth to his back. How humiliating this must be for a full grown man to be draped over someone’s knee, naked like a babe. To make the situation worse, the freezing air caused them both to shake and shiver.  
Hypothermia was beginning to become a problem for Sherlock, he was already well into the mild stage. His features pale, more than usual, his blind eyes unfocused and darting. The Detective suddenly clutched at his stomach, turning in on himself till he lay curled around Alex’s legs in what may have been the fetal position.  
John held his mouth in a tight line; stage four of Sherlock’s withdrawal was kicking in.  
Alex stared down at Sherlock who had been quietly groaning in pain for a minute straight, a low rumble that eventually cracked off. Satisfied that the bleeding had stopped, Alex gently lifted Sherlock off his lap and settled him on to the floor.  
He couldn’t help but stare at the man curled on the floor beneath him: Bloodied and shivering in the cold Sherlock desperately looked for something to see but failed and grunted angrily. His legs kicked out against his control, muscles twitching and jerking at their own will. A wave of intense nausea rolled over him, strong enough to send him a torrent of headaches that stabbed and twisted sharply. The Detective gasped and curled in on himself in fear of being punished for the yelp that he had let escape. Swiftly, Alex made his way over and knelt by the young man rocking himself, just in time to lift his head as he vomited an arch of crimson blood. There was nothing in his system to be released besides blood.

Bit not good.

“Oh, easy sir! Calm down, take deep breaths!” But Alex’s voice had been anything but calming, the familiar frightening tone sent Sherlock into a wild panic.  
Rolling roughly onto his stomach he frantically and clumsily crawled away from the terrifying noise till his head bumped a wall, Alex hadn’t been quick enough to stop him. Sherlock in frustration, exhaustion and pain flopped onto his side and waited. The moment Alex had fell to his knees beside him Mycroft spoke.  
“Just tell us where you are! He needs our help. Please.” John was concerned at how weak that once strong voice sounded.  
“I would, Sir. I wish I could! But he is threatening my Family. I can’t.” And just like that, all their hopes sunk. It was seeming unlikely that Sherlock would come out of this alive.  
Just then, as if on cue, two large male handlers stalked in and swiftly moved Alex out of their way. They loomed dangerously over Sherlock, both grinning madly and giggling as they watched the battered man at their feet quiver.  
In the larger one’s hands rested a metal collar, in his partner’s a remote.

“About time this Bitch was collared.”


	22. Punishment part ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: original characters to creator

Author's note: Guys! I am so so so sorry it took me so damn long to post but I hope it is worth it. I made this an extremely long chapter which is why the wait was so long. I have received feedback begging for me to have Sherlock saved already. I am currently wrapping up the torture in the next few chapters and all I am telling you is that very, very soon Sherlock shall be "relieved" of his pain. *evil smirk* I have started school again and am taking college courses so it will be rough, but I will try to post as often as I can, I will not make you wait this long again and this is probably the longest chapter you will get from me, but who knows. Do you prefer frequent updates with short chapters or not so frequent with much longer ones? Just to let you know, I have also received feedback criticizing my Characters so let me tell you. They are obviously out of Character because this was written by me, not Moffat, or Gatiss or Conan. Me. This is my interpretation so if you do not like how I have them, do not read. But I appreciate the feedback none the less. This is a very funny,(in my mind) and cute chapter of whumpage on our favorite sociopath. I am planning on making the next chapter a continuation of this so you can all see how this little mini story ends. and then back to the more brutal stuff before the "relief" of the pain and Moriarty. If you don't want to read this you don't have to, not essential to the story, I just thought I would make you guys giggle a bit before we get to the tough stuff. Please review if you can! And if you have any specifics of what you think should happen next, feel free to let me know. Alrigt, enjoy! and I love you all!

Sherlock remained obediently still as he was roughly dragged to a kneeling position and forced to bow by the handler holding his arms behind his back. The larger one stepped forward, grinning manically as he snapped the collar into place as Sherlock writhed.

John held back a gasp when the Detective lifted his head revealing trickles of blood streaming down his alabaster neck from under the collar, the inside had been lined with needles.

Sherlock pulled his lips into a tight line, refusing to show signs of weakness like he was previously. He breathed deeply through his nose, unable to pull in a proper lungful of air with the tight constriction wound around his throat.

"Don't think your screaming will go unpunished? Our deal was you break the rules I kill someone you love." Moriarty limped into the room, (John wanted to cheer at how pronounced the limp was.) His face wiped clean of blood was left with molted bruises, a particularly large, swollen black mark lining his jaw. One of his handlers must have reset the jaw bone. Ouch.

Moriarty made the mistake of smiling at Sherlock's collar and immediately cradled his jaw in his hand.

"I see Pet is now collared. Very good. You see, Dear? I am not going to shoot them down in cold blood, yet. Oh, No. They need to see you broken first. I wouldn't be able to live knowing they didn't see the Great Sherlock Holmes shattered! That would be too painless. I want them to suffer. I WANT YOU ALL TO SUFFER!" He loomed dangerously tall over the kneeling Detective. "But none, more so than Sherlock Holmes. So dear. Let's test your collar out." The consulting Criminal turned on his heels and danced to the far end of the wall to some unheard tune. A bright light suddenly filled the dark room, Sherlock didn't flinch at the change of light. He didn't notice.

John wanted to cry.

"Now, you will behave. We will not relive what happened earlier. I know you are suppressing your withdrawal pain. How agonizing is it? Hmm? I would love to know exactly how wrenching do your insides feel! What about the HEADACHE!?" Moriarty leaned down and screamed the last word into Sherlock's un-expecting ear. The Detective shot to his feet in fear before the intense burning of his bruised, burned and exhausted muscles gave way and he tumbled harshly backwards ripping the skin open again and sending an arch of red across the floor.

"Look at the mess you have made! Oh, shame on you. Come here." Moriarty snapped his fingers.

Sherlock remained curled on the floor immobile in pain as his mouth gaped like a fish out of water.

"Come. Here." A twinge of restrained anger tainted the man's usually silky voice. The Detective's legs suddenly shot out before curling back to his chest, they continued to twitch in complete control of the drug violently leaving his system. John noted that despite the fact that Sherlock was in excruciating pain he still held that tight lipped stubborn expression.

Sherlock Holmes would fight tooth and nail to the end of his days. That much John was sure of.

But he wished more than anything to trade spots with Sherlock, no matter the pain. Anything.

Absolutely fucking anything to know Sherlock was safe.

Moriarty swaggered over a few strides closer to the curled figure with pain lacing his features.

Sherlock had given him a hell of a beating.

"COME. HERE. NOW." Moriarty roared sending the Detective into a trembling mess, but slowly Sherlock struggled to his knees and attempted to stand but quickly lowered himself to three limbs with his right arm tucked to his chest.

With a bright shade of red humiliation tinting his swollen face he crawled in what he thought was the direction of the Consulting Criminal.

His groping hand found a smooth shoe. He involuntarily flinched at the hand running through his curls lovingly, gently. Sherlock didn't dare calm himself to the soothing touch.

It was a trick.

Become calm and then pain soon followed.

Touch meant pain.

Touch was bad.

"Now. Stay still, Bitch. I will have my revenge and now-" Moriarty chuckled as he placed a foot on Sherlock's shoulder and rolled him onto this back before sliding his foot down to his stomach where it rested heavily.

"- I want to hear you scream."

Sherlock lay back obediently shaking with sweat in the freezing room, an overwhelming heat flash overcoming him, licking at his skin like fire. A deeper hotter fire burned at his core, his gut, his brain, his entire body was burning up and he had to lay still on the uncomfortably cold floor with a heavy boot pressing on his cold flesh and boiling insides.

The foot raised up before crashing back down with unimaginable force that doubled him momentarily.

He followed orders.

He screamed.

The scream left his throat raw and bloody and he grimaced at the intense burning and throbbing that wouldn't cease in his stomach.

Ruptured Diaphragm.

Another blow caught him on the nose again and he didn't suppress the growl that wiggled through his lips. Something was being lowered onto him, a weight, rather someone who was now straddling him painfully on his hips. Two hands snaked up his sides making him shiver at the unwanted touch, he felt even more disgusting.

"Oh, Dear. You're shaking! Please calm down, I know you are a virgin and your kind do tend to get nervous for their first time." Moriarty purred and Sherlock stiffened.

If he only fucking knew.

"Ease up, Babe." Moriarty growled into Sherlock's ear before gently nipping it.

Sherlock turned his head away from him and evidently towards the screen, the look of pure helplessness made Sally collapse in tears.

"Oh look what you have done, babe. You upset the audience." Moriarty grinned evilly at the screen.

Sherlock crumpled in on himself as another wave of pain knocked through him and beat a scream of agony out of his lungs.

"Oh poor baby. You need another fix don't you? Answer Me." Moriarty shook him violently.

The word came out a strangled rasp, the only noise he had made in a weak were those of pain and now an actual language felt odd in his mouth.

"Y-yes."

"Well, you are going to have to work for it dear." The consulting Criminal let his hand wind in those greasy curls.

"Now, I will give you your fix for a small price." He smiled down at the man squirming underneath him.

"Just. One. Kiss." A maddeningly annoying chuckle echoed off the dank walls. Sherlock turned his head to face Moriarty with his eyes staring at a point a bit too high above Moriarty's eyes.

"No." The baritone voice rang out strong and confident.

He was still in there and that realization made John's heart skip a beat.

"I think you may want to reconsider." Moriarty pulled a remote from his pocket. "I have my remote in hand, with such a beautiful red button."

How Cliché.

The big red button that must never be pushed.

As if Moriarty had been reading his mind he said, "Yes, oh, how I love big red buttons! So much fun, Don't you think?"

"Now Kiss me." His voice dropped low, almost comparable to Sherlock's.

Shivers ran violently up and down the Detective's spine as he tried to imagine what the man sitting on top of him looked like, angry? Possibly. That is what made him feel even more terrible, this feeling of not knowing what was going to happen next.

He hated not knowing.

He hated being blinded, one of his best senses gone.

For maybe forever.

He hate-

"AAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!" Sherlock was suddenly on fire, blazing heat running through him, burning his insides sending him convulsing and writhing in pain as he screamed himself hoarse.

The unbearable pain wouldn't stop, it continued with the concentration emanating from his neck and boiling him and just when he thinks he is about to die in that white hot agony that threatens to violently tear his limbs apart and drag his insides out of him. He prays for death, to be able to cut himself open, reach inside his chest and pull out his heart.

It stops.

He can't breathe.

His breath hitches like his lungs have forgotten how to work.

"Come on, breathe now." Moriarty cooed lightly and gently tilted Sherlock's head back, opening his pinched airway.

Slowly.

Agonizingly slowly, the air returned to fill his lungs that fill with relief that the pain lost its harshness but still sent a dull throbbing through his brain.

"Now. You will behave and you will kiss me." Moriarty gripped Sherlock just above his collar, squeezing till he felt his rapid pulse.

The consulting criminal let his lips gently brush Sherlock's quivering ones, a light brush that would have been pleasant if not under the circumstances.

"Come on dear, You must reciprocate." He placed his lips back down with a tiny amount of force while Sherlock's lips remained soft, not accepting the kiss.

Moriarty reached to something off camera and with a flash of silver pressed it in between Sherlock's ribs, not cutting the surface, barely poking in.

A dagger, small enough to easily slide between the bones.

The Detective tensed before letting a tear roll down his cheek.

He would have to willingly kiss him.

And that was worse than being raped.

At least when he was raped he didn't participate, he didn't reciprocate, he would take it.

Now, he was being forced to perform an act against his will, one he would have to be completely aware for.

And he let all his anger, fear, disgust, embarrassment and anxiety flood out of him in that one tear.

One always gets nervous before their first kiss.

And not once in his life did he ever expect his first kiss to be under these circumstances.

He had imagined it to be with Irene. The woman. The woman who dominated him.

But in that case, he enjoyed being dominated by someone because at least then he knew she would never harm him in this way.

She had loved him, that much he knew.

Sherlock had also considered Molly to be the recipient of his first kiss.

Moly Hooper wouldn't have been bad at all with her small lips. Gentle. Sweet. Caring.

He had even let it cross his mind that it would be John.

That thought quickly left and he would never consider it again. A secret that would go to the grave.

Which by the pace he was heading wouldn't be far long from now.

But Sherlock was content in knowing the last thing he would see before his life ended would be John. His best friend that would never hurt him.

The Detective snapped back to reality.

He sucked in a deep breath and with reluctance and a tainted heart, leaned up to meet Moriarty's sinning waiting lips.

Sherlock let Moriarty lead.

He didn't know how to kiss.

But he was sure Moriarty was doing it wrong because it did not feel-

Pleasant.

Strong lips responded pushing his head back down to the floor and hungrily attacking his mouth.

Sherlock allowed it.

A darting tongue grazed his bottom lip and was only granted permission due to the dagger slowly pressing harder against him making him whimper.

What in the fucking hell am I supposed to do with my tongue?

Why is he biting my lips so damn hard?

Fuck!

That hurt.

How long is his tongue, Holy shit.

He is going to make me gag if he keeps that up.

As if he read his mind (once again) Moriarty snatched his chin and yanked his head back roughly, leaning down to make the kiss deeper.

And this time Sherlock did gag. Moriarty roughly pushed his way into the man's mouth, making it as un pleasant and painful as possible.

Sherlock gagged again and bucked instinctively to get away from the foreign object choking him.

The Criminal let a hand slide down to Sherlock's hip and rooted him to the floor, suppressing his kicking legs.

A particularly hard nip on his lifeless tongue sent a flood of iron tasting blood into his mouth and rolling out of his lips and down his chin. He didn't want to imagine the looks on the faces of his friends.

After an eternity.

Moriarty slowly pulled away.

Sherlock sucked in a painful breath and swallowed a mouthful of blood.

How the hell do people kiss for so long!?

It's like fucking drowning!

"You are quite a terrible kisser. Don't worry, I'll teach you! Practice makes perfect." With one last fleeting brush of the lips Moriarty stood up brushed the blood from his lips and left the spluttering Detective on the floor. Moriarty returned quickly with a syringe in his fingers.

"This is for obeying me, You were a very good boy." The syringe slid into the Detective's arm with practiced ease. Sherlock immediately relaxed, letting the drug sweep him over.

He had been so close.

Once Sherlock was left alone with Alex once again John dared speak.

"You okay, Sherlock?" He inwardly cursed himself for sounding so weak, he had to be strong for Sherlock.

With Alex's help Sherlock was rolled onto his stomach and propped up by Alex who wrapped his arms underneath Sherlock's chest so he could cough the remaining blood out of his throat and breathe.

After a full minute of coughing and spitting Sherlock slowly lifted his aching head and scanned the screen, almost spot on as to where to place his eyes.

John stared at his blind bloodied friend whose bottom lip was now swollen while clotted blood hung in ribbons off his chin and chest.

A bloodied toothy grin flashed across his painfully bruised face, each tooth stained in red protruding from his white gums.

A low throaty voice rumbled, "I am always Okay."

Then the bloody head rolled forward and his body slumped in Alex's arms.

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

"I am always okay…."

John's mind flashed back to the day he had woken Sherlock from his nightmare, when they had traveled to the hospital, then to the candy shop and then back home.

He remembered the disappointed, horrified and disgusted look Sherlock had on his face as he scrubbed his own skin from underneath his cracked fingernails.

"I am always okay…"

Eric stumbled into the room and gave one last evil grin into the camera.

Then everything went black on the screen, Scotland Yard was severed from Sherlock.

John didn't receive another message for two weeks.

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

"It has been two whole days since the last video. Let's go find him already!" John paced in the little room: he was exhausted, stiff and hungry.

So was Sherlock.

He wouldn't rest until Sherlock was safe but Moriarty's threat still ran through his mind.

If you come looking for him, I will kill him.

That was the last text he had received from him and now two days later he was still planning a way around that threat.

"Mycroft, did any of your men locate them?"

Mycroft sat in a hard plastic chair holding a cup of tea that was once hot, he shook his head.

"Lestrade, Can't you round up some men so we can find him already!"

"John, you heard the threat. That is not a smart idea, he said if we go searching he would kill us or him, you want to risk that?"

John felt his blood begin to rush through his ears along with the hard beating of his nervous heart.

"I would risk my life for Sherlock. I will do anything to get him back." He stood his ground awaiting an answer from the two men.

Mycroft rose up.

"John, whatever you decide you will have my full support. But I want you to think this through. Is risking all our lives and his necessary to get Sherlock back? Just three more weeks. I know it sounds like a long time but we can only hope Sherlock will survive till then. I have all my Men and Women working feverishly on this case in a safe and controlled manner."

"If they were working as hard as you say they were Sherlock would be here right now. What kind of fucking Brother are you anyway!? Always saying that you care for him. If you really gave a shit about your brother you would come with me and look for him. You would have found him by now. You would have saved him!"

John wished he could swallow his words.

Mycroft stiffened before abruptly turning and rushing out of the doors, his composure long gone.

"Wait! Mycroft- I-wait-"John went to follow him but was held back by a disappointed looking Detective Inspector.

"Enough, John. I think you have forgotten that Sherlock is Mycroft's Brother not yours. It's tough for him, especially after living with their Father and now losing Sherlock again. Please." Lestrade gave a knowing look at John.

Did Lestrade know more about the Holmes Brothers than John?

Yes, that was probable.

The Soldier swallowed and sat down at the nearest chair with a loud sigh, he hadn't slept much in this past week and a half, he hasn't eaten a decent amount and he has never felt such pain.

John had made a promise to himself that until Sherlock was safe and at home he would not eat or sleep any more than required. If Sherlock was to be starved and deprived of sleep than so would he.

It was the least John could do to feel closer to his friend, to suffer along with him. But the others had encouraged him to keep himself healthy, so he consumed the minimum and slept just as little.

Suddenly Mycroft was back in the room walking stiff with his hands clasped behind his back.

And much to John's horror, his eyes looked red and slightly swollen as if he had been crying.

Had John just made Mycroft cry? The thought sent a heavy wave of guilt off of him that he could almost smell, it rode through his heart in crashing ripples that made him nauseous.

"Mycroft, I am so sorry. That was very inappropriate of me considering I could be doing more myself." John stood and walked over to where the stoic Holmes stood threateningly tall over his short frame.

"I know you are doing your best, I am just frustrated. Please, Forgive me?" John took a moment to steal a glance up at that sickeningly familiar blue gaze. He quickly looked away.

He flinched when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

"Of course I forgive you John. I understand. I just ask of you that you respect that Sherlock's traumatic situation is not only affecting him." And with that, Mycroft tugged a pained smile and walked over to his laptop searching for answers.

John finally understood just how much Mycroft loved Sherlock.

But not even love could save him.

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

Sherlock awoke to the sounds of laughter.

The chuckle of the Devil.

The frightnening noise sent shivers of fear throughout every nerve in his body.

Without warning, a wave of pain hit him like a truck leaving him wrenching at his bindings and gasping for air that wouldn't heed to his lungs desperate cries for oxygen.

"Can't breathe Sherlly? Here, let me help you."

A powerful coiled fist launched itself into his starved stomach and sent him slamming into the wall directly behind him jolting his entire frame and head reverberating with the impact.

The battered consulting Detective caught his breath after another minute of choking and sputtering on his own blood.

"Are you hungry Sherlock?" The voice cooed deceivingly smooth. "Hmm? How long has it been? You were unconscious for about two days so that brings us to the lucky number of eleven days without food. I bet you are starved. Just answer with a yes or no. ANSWER ME?" Moriarty roared to the face of the silently crying lump.

"Oh, poor Dear. I scared you. I can help you feel better?" There it was again, that voice as soft as butter and smooth as silk with a sweetness more than sugar.

That beautiful voice of evil.

Sherlock tensed at the thumb that caressed the tears from his very prominent cheek bones, the starvation wasn't easing the gauntness of his features.

"Don't cry dear. I hate to see my pet scared. I won't hurt you." He continued to stroke his face gently before bringing up his other hand to Sherlock's cheek to gently cup his face in his sinning hands. Without warning a pair of lips gently pushed against the Detective's who instantly pulled back with a whimper of pleading.

"Ah, ah, ah. None of that. Stay still or I stab you." Sherlock fell limp. He couldn't see if Moriarty was armed or not and he wasn't completely prepared to take another beating at the moment.

The lips met his again, much more gently then before, nipping softly at his bottom lip.

Sherlock would have described it as pleasant.

Instead it felt more disgusting then the forceful kiss, it was gentle and caring and soft and-

It felt wrong.

He felt disgusted with himself for allowing these words slur through his drug addled mind.

These were Moriarty's lips, his mouth and he would not allow himself to feel any sort of comfort in it.

Sherlock most definitely did not feel a hint of arousal but comfort was starting to creep into his mind as the soft flesh warmed his own blue lips.

He wouldn't allow himself to be comforted.

But it had happened.

The Detective's heart rate slowed and his labored breathing evened out.

And just as the kiss was taking its soothing, gentle, comforting affect: Fingernails were being dragged across his scalp and yanking his head back violently to completely expose his aching neck.

"Can't let you get too comfortable, can we?" Moriarty brushed his fingers along the collar wrapped tightly around his Pet's neck, admiring how it clung to the alabaster skin and drew blood to the surface through hooked needles plunged into the tense muscle beneath its metal.

"How about I fetch the riding crop?" Moriarty's mouth opened into a toothy smile.

He had not allowed Sherlock to sleep for the next fortnight.

He would activate the electricity in the collar every time he drifted, or give a solid kick to the stomach. Both were effective in keeping Sherlock awake. The Detective lived in constant pain, thirst, hunger and exhaustion praying to just die and end the agonizing pain.

And that was how Sherlock spent every waking moment until the day he heard John's voice through the speakers.

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

A week and a half now.

Two weeks and no phone call, no text message, no email.

Absolutely fucking nothing.

And John was sick of it.

If it hadn't been for Lestrade or Mycroft John would of went off searching aimlessly for his friend but they had stopped him every time.

Sometimes verbally convincing-

Most of the time it was physically.

At the moment, John, Mycroft, Lestrade, Sally and Anderson were gathered around a table, occupying every seat and slowly sipping their coffee.

It was 7:35 in the morning and all of their bodies were aching form sleeping on desks, in chairs and in Anderson's case, on the floor.

All in all, a terribly restless night.

Everyone's faces were pulled down in frowns, sulking, mourning, and grieving into their hot drinks.


	23. Punishment part eleven

I received a lot of negative feedback from the last chapter and I apologize that many people didn’t like it and that some people have said they are to stop reading. Sorry. I was asked a lot “How was this chapter funny!?” So, I am sorry if no one found my dark sense of humor. I thought it was “funny” in the sense that our poor Sherlock was disciplined at a very inconvenient time, when everyone turned their wrath on him at once. Remember, this is a “fanfiction” and this would never happen in the show, I know that. Most of the times, I think we forget that he can be a real prick at times, and this was everyone getting back at him for being such an ass. This was a “flashback” also, intended to be years earlier, in the times before the fall when everything slowly became worse. So Moriarty wasn’t in the picture yet, everything was going pretty well. And yes, I know that Lestrade took it too far but you have to remember that I said he was going through hard times with his marriage and life and he was extremely upset and just so happened to release his anger on Sherlock. The cute fluff of that flashback is most likely going to have its own separate chapter. Honestly, I was having a writer’s block and needed to just keep writing in hopes I could find a way to keep this going and that is what came out. Sherlock Whumpage and completely unrealistic character development. So, there. I feel like maybe I should just stop writing this story because I just don’t feel you are all enjoying it anymore. Well, here is the next and last chapter. I am guessing I will have to cut this story short and wrap it up right now. Not what I wanted but I am receiving some pretty upsetting reviews and I don’t like to disappoint my readers. Warnings in this chapter for: Blood, gore, torture, language, whump, feels and all that other crap that you all do not like to read. Sorry for the rant but my spirit is slowly leaking from this story. Thank you for every review, positive and negative ones, all is appreciated. But instead of just mentioning the flaws it would be appreciated if you could give me tips and advice and examples for the future. Writers need help too. Thanks guys it has been fun. Enjoy. This is the last chapter. Sorry.  
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~  
That was the 27th strike.  
28.  
Sherlock had kept a count to keep him from slipping into oblivion. Suddenly everything was slipping form him until he felt dead. But unwilling to leave without saying goodbye to John. Had to say goodbye. Had to say goodbye. Had to say goodbye.  
34.  
Moriarty’s favorite new toy to use on Sherlock these passed days had been a particularly heavy set of brass knuckles.  
The idea that he didn’t feel a thing was upsetting to Sherlock. But he kept count. Just to stay awake. And just when he was slipping into sleep   
John.  
Was that his voice? It had to be! That was him! And Mycroft! And Lestrade! And Sally and Anderson the idiot!! Their footsteps were thundering down the stairs and they were coming to save him and he would be with John and Mycroft and he would be safe and he would feel better and he would heal.  
And then he would kill Moriarty.  
“John!” He croaked to draw attention. Had to get attention.  
“John, help me!” His voice came out as a barely audible raspy whisper.  
And suddenly he was out of his bindings and in the sweet embrace of his, warmth, soft, no more pain. John’s scent envel-oped him and he inhaled deeply though his broken nose and accepting the smell into his pained lungs surrounded by broken ribs.  
“John, he hurt me.” Sherlock sobbed into the soft jumper of his Soldier.  
“I know, Mate. I have you now.” John’s voice broke and he shuddered as he rocked Sherlock’s trembling form. “I am going to wring Moriarty to death, I assure you.” His strong hand wound itself in Sherlock’s hair and stroked it lovingly whispering sweet promises of love and comfort. Sherlock embraced his Doctor and cried his heart out, he was going home. Going home! Safe! Love and Mrs. Hudson’s scones. He was safe, and he was saved.  
And then he woke up.  
“Dreaming again Sherlock? You fell asleep didn’t you, you little Bitch! What have I told you about falling asleep without my permission!?Bring him to the waterboard.”   
Sherlock snapped to full awareness but didn’t struggle, not when he was unchained, not when he was strapped to the board, not when the water was poured over the rag and down his nose and throat.  
He gave up on fighting because he wasn’t going to get saved.  
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~  
Two weeks, fifth teen hours and 34 minutes later, Moriarty called. John answered. They all listened. No video this time then.  
He put it on speaker and stared at the blank screen.  
“Hello Johnny Boy! You obeyed me well. And Sherlock’s month is almost up….Just a few more days until he is all yours. Would you like me to fill you in on how little Sherly is doing? Well, I will anyway!”  
His voice was too fucking cheery.  
“Let us see, where to begin… Oh, Sherlock didn’t like the waterboard. Not in the least bit.” Moriarty paused to pick up a metal object.  
“Even tried to feed him but he wouldn’t let us get the tube down. Such a stubborn beast. But it went down his nostril easy enough, broken cartilage but he will heal, maybe.” He was tinkering with something small, hand held. Metal.  
“I experimented with brass knuckles, chains, ropes, and nails! Ooh, the nails were fun. He is missing his fingernails, but they may grow back. I even shaved his head, he has very large ears! I got a picture for my collection too. I even gave him something to drink. The little bastard didn’t appreciate my offer; apparently he doesn’t like alcohol very much. But he is very funny when he is drunk! Oh, How I am going to miss my pet.” A spine tingling cackle leaked through static.  
“Moriarty, you have had your fun. Give us your address and let us get him now. His time is done. We obeyed your every damn word. Enough now.”  
John gulped harshly.  
“Oh, Johnny Boy! You think I am letting him go just because? I will just wait for him to heal so I can do this all again! This is so ,much fun. Would you like to speak to him? Pet! Johnny boy wants to speak to you. Talk.”  
A pause.  
“J-john?” The voice was a small weak whisper through the static, drowning in pain.  
“Yes! I am here Sherlock! We will get you soon!” John clutched at his fast beating heart and held back a sob.  
“P-please, Hurry. Jo-john.” Sherlock’s labored breathing was heard for several moments before the Devil’s voice replaced it.  
“Oh, How sweet. But Honestly, I am jealous! I get him for a month, and judging by his injuries you will have him for possibly years before he is mine again. I don’t know if I can part with him. Maybe I should just keep him. Would you like that, Pet?”  
“Moriarty give me the fucking address and I will not tear you apart bit by disgusting bit, you Son of A Bitch!!!.” John couldn’t control his anger as he screamed into the small device.  
“Tsk, tsk, John. I warned you. And he was only days away from escape. I want you to know that this is over your head. I told you to respect my decisions and you just defied me and talked out of turn. I am disappointed, you didn’t play the game. Say Good bye To Sherlock.”  
His heart stopped.  
“W-what do you mean say goodbye?” This time he whispered.  
A gun cocked.  
“Say Good bye.” A whimper was heard on the other end.  
“No. No. DON’T YOU DAR-“  
And just like that.  
Moriarty burnt the heart out of John.  
In a split second it was all over.  
The trigger was pulled.  
And the suffering man was final relieved from his tortured agony. He was saved.  
He was Gone.  
And John’s soul had died with him.  
He didn’t even get to say goodbye.   
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~  
They had all wept that evening.  
Every single one of them cried shamelessly for hours all trying to comfort the other.  
Mycroft was by far in the worst state, if that was even possible. He cried to the point of struggling to gulp for air and shuddering in the duvet wrapped around him. He had screamed and had not stopped in the long hours following. John limped over to the last Holmes Brother and wrapped an arm around the shoulders that leaned heavily onto him.  
They both cried until exhaustion and dehydration tucked them both in for the night for a sleep ruined by nightmares of that damned gunshot.  
After a further investigation since the threat to kill Sherlock was void they closed the case and labeled it cold before stuffing it amongst the others.  
There were no leads, no clues, and no hints. Nothing.  
A week later, on the day Sherlock would have been rescued they held the funeral.  
Hundreds came.  
Families of victims that had been saved or justified came to mourn over the Great Detective. Since the body was God knows where they simply had his picture displayed on a table full of flowers.  
John glared at the floor and let his tears fall as the Preacher spoke of the Afterlife and how Sherlock had been saved in the arms of Christ.  
If there was A God why did he let Sherlock die when he knew John would soon follow? Nothing to live for any longer.   
Just looking at that picture made him weep viciously.   
His friend’s blue eyes were particularly piercing and stared directly into the camera, the picture was taken in his younger days as an adult of 24. A boyish nature was still about him and evident in his posture, proud, tall and slightly goofy with his lanky form. A mischievous grin pulled at his frozen lips, the same one he would get when trying to hold back laughter.  
Mycroft had explained to John the story behind that picture in clipped choked sentences. How Sherlock was having a particularly depressing day and how mummy had forced him to get a portrait of himself done since it was past due. Mycroft had went with him to the photographer and stood behind the cameraman and formed ridiculous faces and some rude gestures to get the sulking brother to smile and instead caused him to burst into laughter. The picture was taken exactly before the man flew into fits.  
And there he was propped up on an easel, forever immortalized as he was meant to be: Young, happy, beautiful, and safe from harm.  
It was then his time to speak a few words and he slowly made his way up the small staircase to stand behind the alter. The day had been a beautiful one. The sun shining but with a gentle wind slipping through keeping the air cool and flowing deliciously through the trees. John gazed over the heads of hundreds in the church and more outside, watching him on the big screens and through the speakers set up for all to hear. He shuddered at the thought of Sherlock only able to see him on the screen before he had been killed.  
“Sherlock Holmes. Was an incredible Detective. The world’s only consulting Detective, he had made up the job. He was brave, intelligent, incredibly intelligent. And incredibly stubborn.” A small laughter rippled throughout the crowd.  
“He had been killed during capture. And he had been extremely brave and strong throughout the ordeal. Never once losing hope. He showed the characteristics of a soldier, he was my soldier when I couldn’t be his.” John’s voice broke here, he took a shuddering breath before continuing. “And all I ask now is that he was saved by someone in the afterlife if there is one and is no longer in pain. He was my best friend and will never be forgotten. Thank you.” An uproar of clapping echoed throughout the chamber as John awkwardly limped down the stairs before resuming his spot by Mycroft who hadn’t spoken in days.   
The service was over quickly and people quickly dispersed, not wanting to cause the grieving family any more sorrow. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock’s parents had not attended and told Mycroft that he was better off dead.  
John had held the sobbing Brother for hours after that phone call.  
John attempted to continue on with his life, trying to ignore the stabbing, immobilizing pain he felt every time something reminded him of his fallen comrade. Which was practically everything. His life resumed its dull blankness it had after Sherlock’s fall, except this time, he wasn’t coming back.  
The soldier stayed at 221B Baker street. Not having the desire to move. He had kept all of Sherlock’s things where he had left them and had cleared up the upturned furniture and blood from weeks before that he had never gotten around to sorting until after the funeral.  
The skull remained perched on the mantle.  
John had broken down into a sobbing mess when he found Sherlock’s violin underneath the table, crushed into a million pieces. The skirmish from weeks before had sent the little instrument though the air and onto the wooden floor before being trampled on. The Doctor cradled the splinters in his arms and cried himself raw.  
Scotland yard remained quiet, carrying on with work without the Detective. Lestrade would find himself dialing for Sherlock for assistance only to remember and hang up before rushing to the restroom to compose himself. Sally and Anderson attempted at banter but seemed ultimately useless since Sherlock’s comments were no longer present to urge them on.  
Mycroft called to check in on John every so often but would stay out of his business. Once in a while, John would notice a black car following him at a distance and appreciated the natural over protectiveness of a Big Brother who watched carefully over his younger. John guessed he was the only thing to a little Brother Mycroft had now. He didn’t mind.  
Life went on. Mrs. Hudson baked. John went to the surgery. Mycroft ran Governments. Lestrade solved cases.  
Mrs. Hudson cried. John no longer blogged. Mycroft searched through his photo albums. Lestrade reminded himself there was no longer a detective to help him.  
Violins were no longer played. Experiments no longer burned the air foul around John’s head. Deductions were no longer heard.   
John still found himself preparing tea for two.  
And that was how life continued in rainy London for two long years.  
Until John committed suicide.  
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

It was too much! Too much without him. Life became a chore, a forced, grueling task. Everything grayed and became dull and boring in the eyes of the thrill seeking lonely soldier.  
But when the cold barrel of his browning was pressed to his throbbing temple-  
He felt Alive.  
Oh, so very alive. His heart would race as the adrenaline of danger coursed through his thirsty veins.  
Taking the safety off made him shudder with ecstasy.  
If only he could pull the trigger without the permanent damage.  
But would it be so bad if he did pull the trigger? It would be quick. Just one Big-  
BANG!  
Then he would be with Sherlock. Friends reunited for eternity.  
John trembled as he fingered the trigger. One slip up. One mistake and he will be wiped clean of the relentless pain in his chest. He would leave this mundane world just like his Friend did. Alone. At the wrong end of a gun. He just had to pull the trigger a bit more. If he pulls it a bit more- just a bit-Just-  
BANG!  
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~  
The silence in the Flat could have been sliced with a knife.   
Lestrade stared at John then at the gun, then back at the bleeding John.  
Pity clung to his weathered heart with a vice grip, the soldier had bent and shattered under the pressure of living without his only friend.  
The DI slowly walked over to the bed and sat on the edge next to John who lay motionless on his back with the gun still in his hand.  
Lestrade grasped the gun and gently placed it on the night table. He gazed for a long while at the gaping bullet wound in the wall paper.  
Then he gently hauled the limp soldier up, held him to his chest and comforted the crying, broken Man. For the blood the Doctor had shed was internal, the blood of his soul had leaked out of his heart.  
John wanted to die. He was sure of that.  
Just not today.  
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~  
You think I would honestly do that to you? I would leave you hanging? You think I would kill my favorite Sociopath and his little Doctor? This soon? ;) I am a heartless Bitch, but even I know the limits.   
I scared you.  
Didn’t I?  
I am not going to stop writing because I made one terribly out of character chapter. And Yes, I know it was TERRIBLY OUT OF CHARACTER. THAT WAS THE PURPOSE. I was actually conducting an experiment. I needed to know how much you beautifully loyal readers could handle when it comes to me drifting far from the truth of Sherlock and the Characters. You handled it how I expected and now I know my limits with what you all respond well to and what you don’t so now, I can assure you the rest of the story will be beautifully done if my calculations are correct. One thing I can promise you. You will Cry, Laugh until you can’t breathe and you will fall in love with it again.  
I am back on track and this story is far from over.  
Be ready for the next update for it shall be a good one.  
And don’t take me too seriously. The entire Author’s note at the beginning was just to get you scared.   
Well, it was fun scaring the shit out of you though. XD  
Love you all!  
~Lizzie.

Back, and better than ever.


	24. Found.

Sorry about the last chapter of feels and scary things… You know I love you! I have received a review from a particularly disappointed reader who says that this story is turning ridiculous and I just want to say to you personally. I am very sorry this story is not up to your standards, I am sorry I strayed a bit, and I am sorry that you will no longer be reading it. Writing is hard. Simple as that. I am nowhere near perfect and I know that, so please. Try and put you in my shoes, I need to write well enough to please everyone and that is a hard standard to live up to.

But, Sweetie. Next time you post a review please consider using proper grammar and punctuation before you bash someone else’s writing. I had to read your review six times to understand what you meant. But, never the less, it was greatly appreciated.

And as for the rest of you. YOU ARE AMAZING! You have dealt with my rants and my out of character scenes but you stuck with me and I appreciate that greatly. You all gave me inspiration for this story so take a bow and pat yourself on the back! I hope you enjoy and I hope I have restored some faith in you on my fiction. Thank you all! <3 *End of rant*  
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

 

“W-what do you mean say goodbye?” This time he whispered.  
That is odd. John, sounds scared. What are they saying!? But, he sounds scared. He is a brave man. He doesn’t become scared.  
A gun cocked.  
That’s why.  
Oh.  
Maybe I should try and say Goodbye.  
“Say Good bye.” A whimper was heard on the other end.  
Good bye, John. It wasn’t your fault, please remember it wasn’t your fault. I am going to miss you.  
So very much.

“No. No. DON’T YOU DAR-“  
Bye, John.  
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~  
Sherlock Froze. Thinking he was speaking to John when he was in reality too weak to articulate the words that passed through his mind.  
The gun cocked. The bullet in place.  
John was screaming.  
Then the gun went off.

Am I dead?  
I don’t remember dying? What just happened?  
No trumpets? No angels singing hymns? Where are the pearly white gates and the castles on clouds?  
Unless…  
Am I in Hell?  
Possibility. Considering. I probably deserve it.  
Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them.  
Bloody fucking Ironic.  
I guess God has a sense of humor….  
Thanks.  
But still, where is the eternal fire to burn my soul in agony for eternity?  
The man with the tight red skin, horns and barbed tail with his pitchfork?  
I guess I am stuck…limbo?  
Of course the deities choose to leave me on this Earth with morons. Once again to whoever is listening, Thanks.  
It didn’t hurt. That is a positive. One bullet to the back of the head. Quick.  
I- I don’t feel pain anymore! Wow! Oh, how glorious is this!  
I should go find John.  
Let him know I am alright.  
Maybe Haunt Lestrade. Ha, won’t that be fun!  
I should steal his Badge…..No. Maybe not.  
Don’t want to give the poor man a heart attack.  
Then he would bother me in death too. Cannot have that.

Sherlock stirred his aching muscles and brittle bones.  
Cold. Pavement.  
Warm. Blood.  
Pain. Everywhere.  
Thoughts?  
Scattered.  
~Entering Mind Palace~  
Wel-com-e, SH3R-L0CK.  
I really should get that fixed….. Could be the drugs….  
Last coherent memory:  
The Gun  
John  
Screaming  
Pain  
Possible out comes:  
Death.  
Life?  
Alive?  
Dead.  
Conclusion:  
I was shot.  
Was I?  
I can not remem ber The DAMN DRUGS.  
Wait.  
Oh, Stupid!  
STUPID STUPID STUPID.  
SUCH AN IDIOT.  
I am thinking are not I?  
Thinking=Brain activity= Not dead= Alive.  
I am Alive.  
I am Alive?  
I AM ALIVE! HOW WONDERFUL!  
Sort of?  
I must let John know! I can not do this to him again.  
I will not do this to him again.  
~Exiting Mind Palace~  
“Hello, Sherlock.” The voice of Satan purred in his bleeding ear. “Back from the dead again, Are we?”

A chuckle.  
A hand stroking his head.  
He could feel.  
Why could he not have just shot me?  
“Everyone thinks you’re dead. Now no one will be looking for you! Oh, I am soooooooo CHANGEABLE!” He cackled and twirled the gun in his hand.  
“John-“ Sherlock croaked as his eyes fluttered open with his last ounce of strength.  
“What was that dear? John? You heard him SCREAM. HE WILL NEVER FIND YOU!” A possessive hand fell hard on Sher-lock’s shoulder and curled its nails into flesh.  
“John-w-won’t-ggive up. H-he i-is a sol-soldier. He. Will. Fight.” Sherlock let his heavy head rest on the concrete, too ex-hausted to move and practically to meddled in pain to breathe, let alone speak.  
“Yes, he was a soldier. Was. But he is a broken man now Sher. Without you? Please, he is nothing. You are nothing. Worth-less. Empty. Cold. A corpse. An ugly CORPSE!” Moriarty screamed before whispering with petrifying tenderness, “And you are mine.”  
Moriarty turned on his heels and danced out of the room followed by his crew; Sherlock shuffled his blind eyes to the sounds of decreasing noise desperate for data.  
“Do not worry, My sweet. We will have so much more fun now that I don’t have to worry about giving you up. Just you and me now!” He sang as he paused in the door way. “Till Death do us part.” A hair raising cackle sent shivers down Sherlock’s bruised spine.

And that is how he lived the rest of his pain brimmed hellish life until the day he died. Alone. Afraid. Cold. Starved. And in the dark.  
Every day a struggle, a fight and will to stay alive.  
Always for John.  
For Mycroft.  
For Lestrade.  
For Mrs. Hudson.  
For Molly.  
For everyone he knew.  
He had to fight for them. Maybe if he held on one more day, one more-  
They would find him.  
That was his hope.  
That is what he dreamt about when he was permitted to sleep for an hour after weeks of being forced to stay awake even though every exhausted fiber of his being screamed for him to just let go.  
But he would not let go.  
He held on.  
Tightly.  
Sherlock clung to his last thread of life with his broken, mangled fingers with all he had.  
Because what if he were to let go right before John would find him?  
What if?  
What. If?  
Those two words haunted Sherlock.  
Those two words kept him alive.  
Until even the Great Sherlock Holmes had to slip.  
He had to let go.  
Because Two Years, One Month, Four Days, Thirteen Hours and 29 minutes was too much.  
Too long to be kept locked away. Too be kept from John. Too long to be starved, beaten, Naked, Afraid, Alone.  
Too long since he has felt the sun’s rays lick his skin, warming it in the summer. The frosty bite of the wind in his lungs and on his face that he loved so much as ran through the alleys in the winter with John. Racing until his legs burned with that delicious fire of exhilaration instead of this painful one of broken bones and torn muscles. The taste of delicious food, made with love going into his mouth and filling his small stomach. The feeling of his favorite coat on his skin or the clean sheets wrapping him in their silk as he slept peacefully. The sound of John’s annoying yet lovely giggle when he saw Sherlock being insane or after a ridiculous situation. Oh, How he wished he could hear that laugh one more time. One more time.  
But Like I said, it was too much.  
And after Two Years, One Month, Four Days, Thirteen Hours and 39 minutes, he gave in.  
Sherlock surrendered to the pain, to the diminishing hope that he would be saved, to Moriarty. He surrendered.  
Sherlock Holmes drew his last breath before sighing and sinking into oblivion.  
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~  
Two Years, One Month, Four Days, Thirteen Hours and 40 minutes.  
That is how long John has been on his own.  
John recalled the day he had committed suicide.  
Attempted to commit suicide.  
It had been exactly two years since Sherlock had been killed. John had let him die, let him slip, John had let go.  
But he was still too much of a coward to pull the trigger.  
Weak.  
He had shot the wall in frustration and lay on his back for minutes, hours, days? He didn’t know. But Lestrade had come to inform him of a case and found him sobbing and staring at the ceiling.  
He had taken the gun from him and pulled him into a comforting embrace until he was able to return to reality.  
John had never attempted again.  
He had considered it, dreamt about it, planned it out.  
But he never tried again.  
Because What if?  
What if Sherlock was somehow still alive?  
No.  
Impossible.  
He was shot.  
He was dead.  
What if?  
Two Years, One Month, Four Days, Thirteen Hours and 45 minutes since the day Sherlock had been killed.  
Lestrade texted him.

John, Case for hostage held in Southampton area. I need your help.  
~L

John sighed and quickly texted back.

Why do you need me? You have a perfectly functioning team. My limp is back, you know that. I would slow you down.  
~J

I will meet you there, Doctor. We both know we spend far too much time alone. I also have been informed that the hostage is somehow tied to a certain high government official currently in office and I have many questions.  
~MH

John promptly turned to where he suspected the camera hidden away in his flat to be and raised two fingers.  
His phone bleeped immediately.

Come now, Doctor. That was just rude. And you were off by two and a half feet.  
~MH  
John readjusted his position and repeated the gesture dramatically before giggling to himself half-heartedly and typing back quick.

I guess I will meet you there.  
~J

You will never slow me down. Come armed, John.  
~L

John grabbed his browning and stuffed it into the back of his waist band, he rushed to the coat rack and slung his over his arms with precision. They were going on a case! Just like old times! Armed and ready, John ran to the door, pulled it open and called out, “Sherlock! Are you-“ He stopped. His shoulders hunched disappointedly.  
“Are you coming, Sherlock?” He whispered. “Maybe you could help me out a bit? I could really use you right now.”  
John sighed and leaned against the doorframe, his eyes settled on the skull perched on the mantle blanketed with dust.  
“If-if you can hear me Sherlock. Please. Scotland Yard needs you, I need you. If you could just-maybe-“ John’s voice cracked, he raised a sleeve to wipe the tears from his cheeks.  
“Just be with me. I just need you with me. Please.” John sucked in a shuddering breath before turning to close the door and make his way down the stairs.  
A warmth spread over the right side of his body, as if someone was walking beside him.  
No one there.  
A rush of air to his neck, as if someone was breathing behind him.  
No one there.  
Thin fingers ghosting the tips of his, as if someone was hesitating to grasp his hand.  
No one there.  
He made his way down the stairs and reached for the doorknob, only to have the door swing open on its own accord.  
And there in the doorway, The Ghost of Sherlock. His spirit standing in front of him.  
He stood tall and proud, His eyes seeing and bright, curiously searching John’s shocked face. His coat billowed behind him and the wind ruffled his clean curly hair, the sun shining so perfectly, giving him the slightest trace of a golden halo. His skin glistened translucently, unmarred, healthy, smooth.  
He was perfect.  
Then he smiled. His beautiful smile.  
Then he spoke, a rich rumbling voice with a melody that sang softly, “I have always been with you, John. I always will be. Now, Let’s go, Moron. You have a case to solve, Detective.” He took off, as if he had wings.  
And John took off after him.  
John ran after nothing. The optical illusion vanished, but it had led him to a parked cab.  
He jumped in and told the Driver to take him to Scotland Yard.  
Whether that was Sherlock’s spirit or a figment of his imagination, he did not know. But he did know that things would get better, because Friendship lasts far beyond death.  
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~  
At Scotland Yard, he met up with Lestrade, Mycroft, Anderson and Sally who were looking sulky and irritated in the now cold dusk.  
“So, fill me in. What is going on?” John blew on his freezing fingertips. Lestrade scratched the back of his head tiredly as he searched for a way to explain this whole mess quickly.  
“There is a hostage in an old house on the outskirts of Southampton. It is believed the Hostage has close ties with a high-ranking government official. But there have been no reports of a missing person at all, in two years-“ Lestrade stopped himself.  
“But we believe Moran has something to do with it, since we have heard mentions of him threatening Parliament. Anderson, has also bought to our attention that the Hostage is being used as an outlet for the anger Moran and most likely Moriarty have for this government official, who we still have no idea who could be.” Lestrade watched with caution as John began to broil at hearing Moriarty’s name.  
Sally spoke after an awkward pause, “It may not even be a government official, it could just be some random bloke that he has an issue with. These are just the rumors floating around, so we need your help to find the victim and hopefully Moriarty.”  
John breathed slowly, to calm his seizing heart.  
Why would they call him to find Moriarty?  
Because they knew he would kill him.  
Was that such a bad thing? He deserved far worse.  
Oh, John would do more than kill him.  
He would break every bone in his body, then cut out his eyes, then his tongue, chop off every finger, both hands, then the appendages. He would leave his ears unharmed, so he could hear himself scream. So he could hear the Screams of Sebastian as John lit him on fire. John would beat him senseless with everything he could get his hands on. He would gut him and set his entrails ablaze.  
Then he would suffocate him till he was an inch from death.  
And finally, he would put a bullet in his brain.  
How Poetic.  
The soldier found himself grinning and quickly wiped it from his mouth.  
“Let’s get this Motherfucker.” John grasped his gun and checked for bullets. Fully loaded.  
Oh, he almost forgot. He chuckled to himself ignoring the curious looks from Donovan. The Kind Doctor made a promise to himself. To Moriarty. For Sherlock.  
I will skiiiin you.  
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~  
John sat in the window seat and stared outside at the blurring houses which slowly transformed into trees as they head out further and further into the country, in a hurry to find the hostage who was hopefully alive.  
He had to find Moriarty, had to avenge Sherlock.  
If only, I could have saved him.  
No. Don’t think of that.  
John took a deep breath and allowed his eyes to drift close; preparing himself for the gore he might see soon.  
The War had proved to push him to his limits, but it did not make it any easier to see so much blood, human suffering.  
After over two hours, The trees diminished until only large plains were outstretched for miles on each side of them and there.  
Right there.  
Was a house.  
It was more of a mansion really, with its tall pillars and several stories sticking out like a sore thumb in the middle of nowhere. It would have been almost beautiful if it had been better kept, a paint job, cleaning of the vines snaking their way up the walls.  
John shuddered at all the things that may have happened in that house.  
All the sins.  
“Let’s go Doctor.” Mycroft placed a hand on the day-dreaming Doctor and urged him out of the parked car.  
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~  
Armed and ready they stalked over to the dark house. Not a sound.  
John tested the door. Unlocked.  
Odd.  
He cast a wary glance at the determined DI before bursting in with gun at the ready, the others followed directly behind him only to be met with the dank smell of dark.  
John blinked rapidly to quicken the adjustment of his eyes to the pitch blackness that engulfed them all in the chilling haunted house of sin.  
“Police!” John shouted, the commanding tone bursting forth. He was a soldier once again.  
“Let’s go search for the hostage, I think they left him alone.” Lestrade whispered and blindly searched for a light switch, finding none he headed blind towards the nearest door.  
Closet.  
They all began to search the room around them, John turned on his torch and scanned around. The room was completely empty except for the inch thick dust on the floor.  
He trotted down the nearest hall way and found a single doorway at the end of the corridor.  
The others had scattered, looking for every possible place to hide the victim. John tried the handle. Locked.  
The soldier shouldered the door till it fell from its hinges.  
A dark stair case led down into presumably the basement.  
All the steps creaked with the burden of his feet; he winced at each stride and breathed a silent relief when he reached the bottom.  
The Soldier shivered in the dripping darkness; unable to see the hand in front of his own face he walked into a door a few strides from the last step of the stair case.  
The door opened easily, with a gentle push of the hand.  
And John swore, he could feel the pain, evil and sin cross over him as he entered the freezing room. The Doctor’s breath releasing in short puffs of steam.  
Three things crossed The Soldier’s senses.  
1\. The stench of blood.  
2\. An almost inaudible strained creak.  
3\. John was not alone.  
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~  
The soldier prowled his way in, slowly, carefully. Every way about him slowed, his heart, his breathing, his thinking slowing down as he eased his way in, straining to hear in the silence.

Interrupted by that haunting creak.  
Another cautious step, for he knew not what lay in front of him.  
Another slow, stressed, creak pierced the silence like a thunderclap.  
One more step.  
Drip.  
Drip.  
A steady drizzle leaked from somewhere above accompanied by that-  
Drip.  
A warm substance fell onto the Soldier’s cheek.  
Condensation, it must have been warm condensation from the water pipes, it was freezing in here after all.  
It was water.  
Oh, he wished it had just been water.  
Drip.  
Again, this time on his nose.  
And there it was again!  
Creeeeaaaaaaak.  
Drip.  
This time John touched his face where he felt the sticky substance cling to his skin, his heart beating far too fast as he reached for his torch, flipped it on and shined the light to his fingers.  
Blood.  
Blood falling from the sky.  
Fear hit John like a freight train, do he dare look up to the source of the blood?  
Could he?  
Holding his breath he lifted his eyes and the torch up until he was met with a horrific sight that would haunt him in his nightmares for years. The image burned into his eyes, behind his eyelids, everywhere he looked he saw this. Saw Him.  
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~  
Hanging from the ceiling swung a skeleton. Or, for a better choice of words, a human being who looked like a skeleton.  
Clearly Male. Young. Dead.  
John gaped and stared at the pale figure wrapped in leather and hanging by a chain looped to a harness across his chest.  
He stood there for a moment, in shock before his instincts kicked in. His Soldier instinct to jumpstart into action and his Medical knowledge to help someone in need.  
His eyes followed where the chain stretched across the ceiling before pitching down to a low hook on the left wall. John raced over his fingers working on their own accord: snatching the chain from its hook, unraveling the remaining feet of it and with extreme gentleness he lowered the victim to the floor. Not that the poor man would feel pain anymore, he was long gone.The Doctor quietly thanked who ever had relieved him of his torment as he continued to gingerly lower the boy out of respect. A final kind act.  
  
John practically had a heart attack when a cry of pain was heard behind him.  
A low, guttural moan. Drawn out. Painful.  
He was alive.  
How the hell was he alive?!  
John’s heart split as the cries became more audible as he continued to lower the barely alive victim.  
The Soldier spun on his heel and rushed to the side of the whimpering man, cringing and shaking in fear, pain and cold.  
“Hey, hush.” He whispered, low and gentle. “It’s alright. I am not going to hurt you. Stay still for a moment, alright?” John snagged his phone from his pocket and texted Lestrade.  
Basement. Now. Victim. Alive.  
~J  
Less than a minute later he heard a drum roll of four sets of feet beating down the staircase and into the cold basement.  
John squinted and searched in the blackness for a sign of anyone but was still unable to see anything except the trembling silhouette of the hostage. He kept his torch off to prevent any unnecessary attention.  
The sound of scuffling was heard in the far corner followed by the hum of electricity before the lights flickered and brightened.  
All of their hearts hit the floor along with their jaws.  
This room.  
They had seen it before.  
The table covered with tools form end to end.  
The hooks carrying the weight of chains, harnesses and ropes.  
A waterboarding bed.  
And there, on the far wall, shackles.  
The Shackles.  
John had seen this room before.  
He had cried every night because of the nightmares he had of this damned room.  
The Soldier trembled as he lowered his wavering gaze to the man trembling in front of him.  
The alabaster skin.  
The greasy, dark, long, matted hair that clung wetly to bony shoulders.  
The long, gaunt face with pale skin stretched tightly over high cheekbones and hollow jaws.  
His hand floated forward, pausing before the cold cheek then gently ghosting with soft fingertips.  
A moment.  
And then another.  
Eyes flickered underneath swollen lids.  
A pause.  
Slowly, hesitantly.  
The eyelids cracked open.  
Long lashes fluttered in exhaustion.  
Fear.  
The eyes opened.  
The blind eyes opened.  
John knew those eyes.  
He knew those curls.  
He knew.  
He gulped.  
He rasped.  
“Sherlock?”


	25. Saving Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing!

To a Guest, CrashNBurn whom I cannot message privately,

I am sorry for my rude remark in my previous Author’s note. It was rude and unprofessional and I apologize deeply. I take your review to heart and I understand where you are coming from but this story will be much better so if you are reading this, please accept my deepest apologies. 

And to Megabat,

If you are still giving me a chance and reading this, I want to thank you for all your wonderful advice, support and suggestions. It was incredibly helpful. <3

Sorry this chapter took a while loves, I made it a long one full of feels and I took great time in every sentence.

Hopefully you will be in tears by the end of this. Or not.

Thank everyone for their reviews on this previous chapter. Thank you Thank you Thank you! These past few chapters have been redundant to some and dry to others. They have also been the most difficult to write. I have been doing this story alone and it has been hard, I have slipped up and maybe I should not have done that EXPERIMENTAL chapter. I regret that. But I have my footing again and this story will be “saved.” If you stop reading, I understand and I thank you for sticking with me for this long. If you continue reading, I thank you for continuing to stick with me! Either way, I love you all, and your wonderfully corrective criticism! Warnings in this chapter for hurt/comfort, tears, reunion, descriptions of Sherlock’s abused body, Major Character Death and wait for it…..

 

Wait for it…

CONFRONTATION WITH MORIARTY!

And BAMFJohn. Enjoy and stay beautiful and/or handsome!

 

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

Mycroft was by John’s side and reaching out to caress his Brother before the Soldier could blink. Sherlock breathed heavily around the bit stuffed in his mouth, pulling his bleeding, cracked lips far back. The Elder Holmes stared down at the younger, wanting to pull him into a bone crushing embrace but knowing that the slightest brush of fingertips could send him down a vortex of agony.

So Mycroft simply knelt there, hands hovering by his Baby Brother’s face and biting back the sobs that threatened to fly from his clenching throat.

“John, get that out of his mouth. Right now. Take it out.” Mycroft whispered quietly holding back years of anguish, anger and grief.

The Doctor placed a gentle hand on the Blind Man’s face only to snatch it away as if it had been burned; Sherlock’s frightened growl had sent him back.

He tried again. This time Sherlock did not pull away but remained rigid, too afraid to move for fear of punishment, He hummed repetitively into the bit, methodically. Whether in anxiety or a side effect of brain damage they did not know.

The Doctor drew in a painful breath.

He would have to treat Sherlock like any other patient. He would save him. The Soldier would do anything in his power. So he continued, putting on a stoic expression to hide how weak he felt underneath, how helpless, how terrified. Just as Sherlock did all those years ago.

John reached for the buckles and expertly unlatched them before gently coaxing Sherlock’s cramped jaws open. God only knows how long he had been restricted like this, but John’s obvious observation of the difference in skin coloring beneath the leather told him that Sherlock had been hanging like this for a very long time. Left to rot and die alone.

He would Kill Moriarty.

Sherlock’s jaws would not open, refusing even after the tense muscle was massaged to loosen. He bit the bar in fear of what would replace it. Humming softly all the while.

He would spit in Moriarty’s face. He would piss and dance on his ashes.

“Sherlock. It’s me, John. Remember me?” The Doctor needed to know just how bad the brain damage was. Sherlock was unresponsive to the question but continued the slightly annoying whimpers. Mental damage was obvious.

Tremors running through him.

Extremely dilated pupils. Possible hallucinogenic drug administered.

Darting eyes. Hallucinogenic drug confirmed.

The humming. Brain damage or a nervous disorder developed.

Sherlock was broken at the seams. His magnificent mind turned to mush.

John pushed aside his emotions for he wanted nothing more than to weep and hold his dying friend, to bring him comfort.

Instead he continued to work the muscles that desperately clung to the bit with such fear John wished he could take his place to alleviate the terror in the Detective’s foggy eyes.

“Come on, Mate. Open your mouth.” John finally managed to pry Sherlock’s jaws open with a sharp yelp, before carefully removing the bar.

Angrily, The Soldier threw the bloody leather and bit across the room where it landed quietly in the corner with a thump.

Gently tilting back the bruised head, The Doctor got a better look inside the swollen maw for any other foreign objects. What he found instead was eight missing teeth. The molars far back in the Detective’s mouth on his top and bottom jaws had been pried out and the bit painfully stuffed in between the tender gums.

Lestrade was by John’s side, opposite Mycroft, awaiting orders to help. Anderson and Sally had eased their way over but kept their distance, afraid of crowding the already petrified man shaking on the floor.

Sherlock’s arms were crossed across his chest in chains, his legs tucked back tightly towards his buttocks with thick leather straps and shackles. Mycroft, without a word, assisted John in the unlatching; Lestrade gently took the bloody leather from their hands and tossed it out of the way. Within moments, the leather had been stripped away from the Detective who sighed in partial relief; partial anticipation for what torture awaited him next.

They never take my harness off? Why? What is happening? Those voices don’t sound like them.

John slowly, cautiously, began to stretch the cramped, frozen muscles from their folded positions, Sherlock moaned loudly and wriggled in pain as his long legs were stretched from underneath him. His arms remained crossed across his chest still clamped together at the wrists with metal cuffs. His shattered ankles locked in the same predicament.

You needed a key for those.

They would take the cuffs off at the hospital, tools were bound to be available there.

Ignoring the frightened cries, John ran his hands over the broken body searching for any profusely bleeding wounds, nails left to pinch underneath the skin and any other sick devices Moriarty might have hidden on or in Sherlock.

With pain biting at his heart, tearing it to shreds, John memorized that terrifying image of Sherlock. Every bone in his body, clearly defined and pressing against the dry skin, ready to burst through at the slightest shift. His concave stomach pumping desperately hard, since his lungs could not, to draw in oxygen and push it back out. The chattering of teeth lodged in dry gums as he shivered violently, his bloody lips and skin giving off a blue hue. The awfully loud wheezing of weak lungs and a blood clotted throat pushing over his swollen tongue and through broken teeth with the unceasing humming.

The massive labyrinth of bruises crossing the burned crimson skin, the mulched muscles hanging from the thin back, now covered in brown scabs that plugged the bleeding. Remnants of salt rubbed into the open flesh still remained peppered across the folds of skin along with the curdled ropes of blood threading its way down the scrawny form. John found a mark.

A brand.

Stretching across the malnourished outer thigh of his friend in ugly, red, welted letters:

PROPERTY OF MORIARTY.

If The Soldier’s blood was not boiling before, it was steaming and evaporating out of his ears now.

John shrugged off his coat, feeling stupid for not doing it earlier, and draping it across his friend’s lower half, covering his stolen dignity and the branding that made him sick. A brand that he would be stuck with for the rest of his life. The Doctor had tried to keep the words hidden from Mycroft who saw besides his efforts and turned away. Control your anger. Control your anger. Control your Anger.

“Hey, Sherlock. We are going to take you to the hospital okay, everything is alright. I am going to carry you, just relax. “John whispered before lifting to a crouch and beginning to slide his arms gently under the scabbed back and trembling legs only to stop when a terrifying laugh pierced their ears. His laugh.

“You think it would be this easy? Really? I am disappointed in you, John.” Moriarty flaunted in, spinning and twirling to an unheard tune. The Doctor let his eyes wander to find everyone staring at the Spider spinning, and Sherlock shivering on the floor, with a red dot trained on his heart.

“You. Fucking. Arsehole.” John rose to his feet and hurtled himself at the Devil, much to the protest of Scotland Yard who quickly stopped themselves.

Not one shot rang out as he charged only to halt nose to nose with the Man he has fantasized about squeezing the life from.

“No need for vulgarity, John. It shows for a lack of vocabulary. Why do we not settle this like adults? After all, I just want to talk.”

Still a hairsbreadth away from the Demon John growled with enough intensity he may as well have been screaming.

“I do not have time for your game anymore, Moriarty. I am taking Sherlock home now. End of story.” John turned on his heel, like a Soldier, and rushed back to Sherlock’s side.

“Tsk, Tsk, John. I can see how stubborn you are going to be and if you do not want to play, you must forfeit.” Moriarty sneered.

“FINE! FINE! I FORFEIT! YOU WIN MORIARTY! ARE YOU SATISFIED YET?!” John screamed, startling Sherlock who cried out surprisingly loud then coward to himself.

“Oh, I’m sorry, take it easy- I didn’t mean to frighten you.” John muttered to Sherlock who lifted his mangled hands to protect his broken face.

“Oh, Look what you have done now. You scared my little Bitch. He does startle easily as of late. Maybe I should-“

John turned, pulled out his gun and fired with such speed that even Sebastian would have been impressed. Wherever he might be.

The Spider gaped for a moment, not quite comprehending the bullet swimming in his throbbing stomach.

“Maybe you should shut up, you bloody prick.” The Soldier, now completely lost in the kill, stalked to his prey. Nothing could stop him now.

Not Lestrade.

Not Mycroft.

Not Sebastian.

Not even Sherlock’s heart wrenching cries.

Nothing.

He stooped down and grasped the thin throat, hard. John grinned manically when he noticed the glistening fear in the eyes of oil. His grin doubled and stretched across his face as he felt the crunch of muscle beneath his hand, and did it feel glorious. The soldier tightened his already iron cast grip on the shuddering form, gasping and wriggling for breath. Gurgling and coughing the ropes of blood from his innards.

He was scared.

The Prick was finally scared!

He should be.

John let all hell loose.

With every punch he released the suffering, the pain, the grief, the regret, the nightmares, the hate, the wasted years.

Six years he could have had with Sherlock.

Gone forever.

He buried his friend twice already.

He wasn’t going to allow it a third time.

John’s sight went red.

With Blood.

The Soldier hit every open place he could. Nose. Eyes. Mouth. Chin. Throat. Chest. Head. The crunch of bone, the tearing of tendons, the whimpers, screams and finally pleas of mercy.

Sweet music to his ears. He would fall asleep to that lullaby of pain for years, replaying the delicious memory in his head of the life being beaten from the little spider.

Nothing could stop his show of brutality; his savagery could not be quelled by any force on this earth.

Then a gun went off.

A man screamed.

John Froze.

 

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

The soldier ceased his assault and spun to the source of the unearthly scream.

Lestrade lay beside Sherlock in a pool of his own blood, clutching his left shattered shoulder and howling.

The sniper’s red glare had disappeared, along with the light in the Spider’s eyes.

John turned back to find a very dead Moriarty hanging from his grip.

He deserved worse.

The Soldier spat in his face before slapping the corpse and kicking it to the side.

Sally was already pressing down on Lestrade’s torn shoulder, he grimaced and whimpered weakly, already dizzy from loss of blood.

Anderson was by Sherlock’s side, gently hoisting his broken, frozen body into his Brother’s arms.

John scrambled for Lestrade, quickly ripping his own vest to tourniquet the profusely pouring wound. Nicked an artery.

“What happened Lestrade?” The man had to stay awake.

“I saw the-shooter aiming for Sherlock-so I jumped in front.” The lack of oxygen labored his breathing.

“Well, you may have just saved his life. Thank you.” John hurriedly stole a glance at Sherlock trying to break free of the unfamiliar arms, weakly wriggling and whining, as Mycroft whispered gentle nonsense. His voice flowing through bloody ears unrecognized.

“Of course. He’s- my friend.” Lestrade grimaced tightly, attempting to smile.

“Let’s get you both out of here.” John pulled Lestrade to his feet before handing him off to Sally and Anderson to assist.

With Mycroft finally achieving control of Sherlock, they all hastily followed closely behind the soldier, gun trained on anything that poised a threat to their escape.

Escape.

Together, they jogged, walked, and dragged in silence, excluding the rhythmic nervous humming of a quaking Sociopath.

John was the first to reach the steep stair case, silently running up and sweeping the clear area.

Bounding back down, he placed himself behind Mycroft, who struggled up the steps.

The insignificant weight of his Brother did not make his knees buckle or his arms ache, it was the knowledge of knowing one false move, one trip, one fall.

And he might shatter the already cracked man.

Just then, an incomprehensible utter was swallowed behind swollen lips.

Mycroft stopped climbing and stared down before whispering, “Did you say something, Sherlock?”

Sherlock perked slightly at hearing his name, he recognized that.

Mycroft tried again, quickly. “What did you say?”

If possible, The Detective began to shutter even more violently, teeth chattering along to the insistent humming.

Placing that thought to the side, he must have imagined it; Mycroft continued to climb only to stop when he heard an astonishingly weak voice murmur, “P-please, do-don’t d-dr-drop m-me.”

Sucking down the lump in his throat, and blinking back the tears already beginning to fall, Mycroft hugged his baby Brother a little tighter.

“I promise I won’t drop you. I never will.”

They were all up the stairs and trekking for the front door when an unfamiliar growl froze them.

“Where the bloody hell d’you think you’re goin’? John spun, gun cocked, and faced a tall man.

A scruffy man, with a mop of blonde hair hanging limply over the scar down his face like a greasy dead animal, with a sniper cradled in his calloused hands.

John didn’t have time to answer, the man erupted crimson from a gaping hole in his head and hit the ground like a broken tree.

In his place stood a scrawny young man, jaw set, holding a pistol in steady hands.

“Never liked Sebastian. Always a prick.” He lowered the gun and smiled nervously.

“I’m Alex.”

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

He was thinner since John had last seen him cast upon that wretched screen many months ago: thinner, older, beaten looking.

That much would be expected from a slave of Moriarty.

“Well, uhm, thank you for that. What you did-that was, uhm, Good?” John nodded quickly.

Alex stepped out of the shadows to meet the band of rescuers.

“I have an extra car, I could help.” He handed the gun, barrel facing him, to a frightened looking Anderson.

“I am on your side. I just want to help.” The man stood for a moment before flicking his eyes to the sack of bones, now limply hanging unconscious.

“Forget the cars, I will call a helicopter.” Mycroft called back as he already began to trudge outside into the nippy London air.

The sooner he could get Sherlock to a hospital the better, and frankly to protective Big Brother, this Alex could not be trusted. Yet.

After a ten minute wait out in the cold as Mycroft sat in the heated car, still cradling his sleeping brother, with Lestrade in the back being constantly roused by Sally, the whirls of blades through thin air could be heard along with the grand sweeping of bright lights on the ground below.

The unkempt grass rippled wildly, making way for the metal beast to land in its plush. Medics leaped from the threshold, bringing with them a stretcher and rushing to the car.

Both men froze at the state of the decaying like figure swimming in the arms of a weary looking man.

But within an instant, both jump started into action, placing him onto the stretcher curled awkwardly with his cramped limbs and standing out immensely with red flesh on white sheets.

In a whirlwind of pushing, shoving, shouting, crying and climbing on board the already rising copter they flew towards the nearest hospital.

The youngest nurse aided Lestrade, fastening an oxygen mask to his face and keeping the bleeding under control.

The older nurse, gentle in his proceedings but urgent, spoke soothingly, even as he began to place the mask on the unsuspecting face. All of them started when Sherlock's incredible screaming and weak struggling sent the mask onto the floor, almost falling out of the copter.

John crouched by his side in an instant and ran a palm over the mass of overgrown hair.

“Shh, easy mate. Sherlock, take it easy.” John continued his soft whispers and placed a warm hand on Sherlock's heart, willing it to steady. Slowly the fight left him, his last rush of adrenaline used up.

“Sherlock, The nurse is going to put an oxygen mask on you now. It will not hurt you. You just need to breathe.” The Soldier found himself almost smiling at the idea of what Sherlock would have said if the situation be different.

Really, John? I had no fucking idea and oxygen mask was used to breathe!

Instead, his answer was a nervous, shuddering whimper. This time, John grasped the mask and slowly lowered it to the bloody nose and mouth until Sherlock could sense it in front of him.

“Alright, just keep breathing. That's it. Keep going. In and out, nice and slow. Just like that.” The mask settled gently on thin features as Sherlock's eyes widened in terror, his breathing hitched and stopped all together as he awaited the water that was sure to start flowing down his throat.

Rushing, pouring, dripping, gushing.

Choking! CAN NOT BREATHE! Don't breathe. Do not breathe. They will stop. They have to stop.

They NEED to stop.

“....Just like that...”

No.

That was a dream.

It had to be a dream.

But, that was his voice.

So.

It's safe?

It's safe to breathe.

John is keeping me safe.

Sherlock exhaled sharply before pulling in a nervous, short inhale. Slowly, his breathing evened out, his chest rising and falling as his body hungrily drank the oxygen rich air provided with only a wheeze of the broken ribs pushing, and the sunken in ward stomach contracting.

His eyes flickered for a moment before fluttering shut with a new found peace. The constant struggle for oxygen he desperately needed was over.

John continued to hush him gently, soothing his frazzled nerves and encouraging him to trust.

The doctor swept a thumb over the cheek, catching a tear.

For a few sweet minutes, the tortured man lay calm.

Minutes later, the helicopter landed and was immediately apprehended by a slew of medical professionals herding around Lestrade and Sherlock.

John and Mycroft found it difficult to keep up with the racing medics, carrying a petrified Sherlock through the back doors and down corridor after corridor, ignoring his shouts.

“John!! John! He-help!” He croaked and stretched a mangled hand to where he suspected John to be but cried greater when he was only met with air and a forceful push onto his back.

A young nurse stopped Mycroft and John's advancement and sternly told them to remain in the waiting room.

“He is my friend and he has just been rescued from his captors after two damn years! He needs us! He is a nervous wreck right now! If we are not there he will have a breakdown!” John yelled in the blonde's face before moving to run past her only to be blocked by an extremely large security guard.

“We are trained staff. We will handle him.” She stated matter of factly. If The soldier had not vowed to attack any one weaker than himself (included woman, children and the elderly) he would have knocked her lights out.

John backed off.

She turned and hurried after the stretcher carrying Sherlock that had now disappeared around a corner.

“You better keep me updated!” John screeched before turning to Mycroft, pulling at his hair.

“John, let me speak with them.” Holmes placed a steady hand on his quivering shoulder before turning and marching to the front desk, determined and poised.

John could not make out the conversation but observed the change in facial expressions of the woman behind the counter.

Boredom. Surprise. Interest. Protest. Fear. Submission.

Mycroft calmly jogged to John before leading him down the corridor with an encouraging tug.

No one fucked with the British Government.

The two could not have arrived at a more convenient time.

Sherlock was being pinned to the table by five men, crying profusely and begging for forgiveness for some unknown wrong-doing.

The same young nurse that blocked his way was frantically trying to insert a syringe into his track mark mapped arm.

“Sherlock, It’s okay. I am here, I’ve got you.” John pushed past the shaken nurse with little protest and snatched the syringe from her hand.

The hysterical blubbering weakened into soft, silent sobs and pleas.

“It’s just a painkiller, Sherlock. I am going to give you an injection. You trust me don’t you?” John concentrated on the contorted bloody face, ignoring the confused looks of the men around.

“Sir- you can’t-“The little women stepped up once again.

“I am a Doctor, so yes, I bloody can.” The Doctor shot her a murderous look that sent her running from the room like Death was on her tail.

Sherlock seemed to instantly calm at his voice, eyes intent on seeking the source of the familiar tone.

John quickly turned back to the thin body, and whispered, “That’s it, nice an easy. Here we go…”

The needle poked at the skin, not even piercing, when the hoarse, rusty shout stopped him, “N-no needles! I-I’m so-sorry! No needles!” He pleaded, “No needles!”

“But this is a good needle, Sherlock. It will make you feel better.” John felt like an idiot, speaking like this to the most intelligent man he knew, but he had no other way to communicate effectively.

“Pl-ease! I’m s-so so-rry.” He hiccupped for air, still restrained, far too roughly for Mycroft’s liking, by the burly nurses.

“Hush, it’s okay…” John muttered while expertly slipping the needle into cracked skin, injecting the medication and withdrawing it without a flinch.

“See, all done. That’s it!” John gently patted the bone lined chest.

“N-no more needles?” Sherlock’s face scrunched slightly as his head lolled with new found relief from the pain.

“No, no more needles.” John promised even though there would be many more. Sherlock would not remember anyway.

Without the constant, overwhelming pain burning through him Sherlock fell out like a burnt light bulb.

The nurses left at Mycroft’s request so he could hold his Brother’s hand in privacy as John situated his friend.

He slipped a warmed IV into the pencil like appendage, searching thoroughly to find a good vein before sliding it easily under the burned skin. Without him conscious, it was easy to slip on an oxygen mask and fasten it with little complaint; he worked in silence, and worked swiftly. He needed a moment’s rest.

Lastly, he drew the sheet over the shivering form, the white of the linen, the room, the floor, the ceiling, cast a ghostly, dead look to his already awkward coloring form. Red with welts, Pink with burns, Purple with Bruises, Green with infection, and Blue with hypothermia.

John pulled a plastic chair beside Mycroft and waited.

That was all they could do for now.

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

After about ten minutes of a mutual silence among the three men, until a middle-aged Doctor peeked in and greeted them gently.

“Hello, Gentleman. Good evening.”

Could be a whole fucking lot better.

“Hello, Dr. Tyler.” John squinted at the small name tag.

The graying man approached gracefully, taking in the now awake Sherlock, studying and examining with his eyes.

“Hello, Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes. And Sherlock, How are you feeling?” He shook John’s and Mycroft’s hands before making his way to Sherlock and this evening ghosting a hand over his shoulder.

His answer was a set of blind eyes sunken into a hollow face, blinking rapidly. A low hum followed.

“I am your Doctor, Sherlock. I just have to examine you over, take a few samples and run some tests. Then I will have forensics come and take some pictures and then we will fix you up and send you on home. Sound good?” His smile was genuine as he explained.

Sherlock looked terrified form the sudden bombardment of information, he croaked, “Examine?”

“Yes,” he nodded, even though Sherlock couldn’t see, “Just a physical, and then I will take some samples. Will your Brother and Friend be staying with us?”

Sherlock hesitated, how to answer?

“They can if you’d like?” He encouraged.

A desperate nod was his only answer.

“Alright. No problem. Let’s get started then.” Dr. Tyler placed the stethoscope into his ears before approaching Sherlock. “I am just going to pull your sheet down a bit so I can hear that heart of yours.”

John stood behind Sherlock’s bed, placing a hand on the sides of his face, soothingly rubbing circles on his temples.

Mycroft placed himself out of the way on the side, cradling a thin hand in between his own, looking so small in his large healthy ones.

The Doctor pulled back the sheet, only revealing his chest, Sherlock shuddered but retained his fear.

Two cold hands probed his chest, pressing the broken ribs, feeling the heartbeat.

“Breathe in, Breathe out.” The Doctor placed the cold metal to the chest, only to hear a painful hiss.

“Oops, sorry! That must be cold.” He puffed hot breath onto the cold metal before gently rubbing it on his shirt.

“Here, it’s better now. Breathe in, Breathe out.” This time, a loud exhale and shuddering inhale broke the silence, followed by a hail of coughing.

“Try that again, but a little more slowly.”

The process repeated, improved.

John tried to read the unintelligible scrawl of the Doctor’s notes on the clipboard. He failed.

Dr. Tyler continued his examination, lowering the sheet to the hipbones and feeling the starved, dehydrated organs beneath. More Notes.

“You are doing fantastic, Sherlock! Just keep calm, you are doing great.” Dr. Tyler encouraged gently before continuing, his hand lowered a bit as he felt the lower intestines. Sherlock yelped loudly, coiling his fingers around the sheets and yanking it up to his chin.

Anything to escape the cold hands, probing and pressing on him, in-case it led to other-things.

“Hey, Relax, Sher.” John stroked the mess of hair gently, hushing him as the Doctor finished his notes.

Mycroft had paled considerably in the past few minutes, never once letting go of Sherlock’s hand.

“Alright, Sherlock. I now just have to take a few samples and then the Forensic will come in. But first, I am just going to talk to your Brother and Friend out in the hallway. Nothing to worry about, I will send in a nurse to keep you company.”

A peppy Brunette walked in and sat in the chair next to Sherlock, complimenting him and stroking his non-existent ego. John followed the Doctor behind Mycroft after catching one last look at the nervous Detective listening to the young woman.

Once outside, the door closed, Dr. Tyler removed his spectacles and cast a grim look at the men before him.

“Listen, Gentleman. Your friend is in very bad shape. I want you to be prepared for the worst.” He ran a hand over his face, wiping away the wrinkles.

“How he held on this long, I will never understand. Sheer willpower. He’s dead, he just hasn’t lied down yet.”

Mycroft leaned against the wall, supporting his weight on the concrete for his legs could not stand to hold him another second.

“I will do whatever is in my power to save him. But with the degree of starvation, hypothermia, dehydration and shock, he may not make it. You need to know that.” He placed a hand on the ill looking Brother’s shoulder, sending him some inner power to hold on. To not give up.

“But he hasn’t stopped fighting. Neither should you.” He paused for a moment, allowing the men to have a minute to let their thoughts catch up to them.

“I will be intubating him after I take samples; his breathing is weak but strong enough. His lungs should get a rest after all the stress he has been under. But he needs both of you desperately, so I will go prepare the tools, and when you are ready, you come on in and comfort him and I will start.” He smiled gently before walking back inside the room.

John let himself slide down the wall until he was settled on the floor, Mycroft followed soon after, not as gracefully.

“Do you think he will make it?” Mycroft’s usually proud sneer dissipated, his voice rasped monotonously, devoid of emotion.

“I believe he will, he has a strong heart. And judging by all that screaming earlier powerful lungs as well.” John offered a half-smile.

“Now, stop talking like a friend, and talk like a Doctor.” Mycroft rose his eyes to meet John’s. Cold, calculating, factual.

The Doctor cleared his throat and nodded once, tersely.

“I do not think so. The degree of damage is severe in the minimum. Brain damage is obvious. Accompanying all of that is the incredible amount of shock he is in from the trauma. It doesn’t look good Mycroft, you may want to say your Goodbye. For real this time.” His own steadiness and analytical thinking shocked John, himself. To hear the truth said out loud hurt. Incredibly.

The Soldier swallowed as best he could. Mycroft didn’t take the news as expected, simply nodding in agreement when in fact he was screaming inside.

“But- If he were to survive this, he would never be the same. You need to come to terms with that also. He will need constant care, someone to be there when he needs assistance or companionship. He may shy away from any contact, or he may crave it. You never know with victims of- well, you just never know. I will always be there for him should he need it, we could both return to Baker street where I will care for him, and you will monitor, like old times. Or if you are more comfortable with him living with you and I could visit occasionally, that is fine too. Just- whatever you need-whatever you like- I could-“

“It’s alright, John. We will come to terms with the arrangements once we find out if he will survive or not.” Mycroft stared at the floor, jaw clenched.

John nodded quickly before studying his shoes.

What if Mycroft wants to sever all contact with him? He was the reason Sherlock was taken and abused in the first place. Does Mycroft hate him? He did not mean for this to happen. He never dreamt of it in his darkest nightmares. Mycroft will probably never let him see Sherlock again. The rest of Scotland Yard probably is holding it against him too. What if Sherlock doesn’t even wish to see him again? He had promised he would protect him from Moriarty. He had failed. The trust would never be rebuilt. It had already been broken, beaten, burned, drowned, cursed, ripped, sliced, compressed, whipped and raped.

What is there left to rebuild?

Just as his thoughts were taking the turn for the worst, Mycroft spoke.

“If he survives, I promise you will remain an active part of his life. And if need be, you are more than welcome at my home, with him. Forever if need be.” Mycroft’s voice broke momentarily but regained its strength after a small cough. The ice man turned warm, he looked at John’s shocked face momentarily before smiling nervously and continuing his examination of the tiles.

John whispered back, “Thank you.” His face calmed and his posture grateful.

But inside his heart leapt for joy, he sang and danced and cried out in happiness.

There was a chance.

Now, Sherlock just had to pull through.

But even more difficult than that.

Sherlock had to forgive John.

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

After a few more minutes in the hall a pounding of rapidly approaching feet broke the mutual silence.

Both men looked up to find a petrified looking Alex running toward them wildly.

SHIT! They forgot about Lestrade!

How the bloody hell did they forget about Lestrade!

The stress of dealing with Sherlock had wiped their minds of anything other than the Detective that desperately needed their undivided attention.

Alex stopped in front of the now standing men, huffing loudly and wiping the beads of sweat from his brow.

“Please tell me Lestrade isn’t dead!” John grasped Alex by the shoulders and hoisted him to look him in the eyes.

“No-no-he’s fine! Just-Fine! OH DEAR GOD!” He pushed John away and dropped to his knees with his hand on his head, sucking in loud breaths.

“I ran-so-damn-far!” He swallowed the little saliva on his tongue.

“What the hell for? How’s Lestrade?” Mycroft pulled the boy to his feet.

“Lestrade is being wrapped up at the moment. He is fine. I came for Sherlock! Did they try and remove the collar and shackles yet!?” His eyes were darting between them, wide with fear.

John shook his head, “No, they are leaving them on as extra evidence until the forensics take pictures, then they need to find the tools to remove them. Why?”

“Because I stole the key from Moriarty!” He triumphantly held up the small key twinkling on the chain. “It fits for the collar and shackles. I didn’t want someone to chop his arm off or something!” He sighed, relieved and placed the key in John’s hand.

“Oh, Thank you! We will come and check in on Lestrade as soon as we can. Where are Sally and Anderson? How are they doing?” John closed his fist around the key.

“Both are shaken, Sally cried for a bit. But hopefully all of us will walk out of here alive.” Alex grimaced tightly.

“We will meet you in the waiting room then. Get a coffee, you look awful.” Mycroft gave him a squeeze on the shoulder.

Alex nodded before jogging back down the way he came.

“You ready?” John asked.

“As I will ever be.” Mycroft sighed heavily before quietly walking in the room.

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

The voices! They’re back!

No

 

No

No

No

No

GO AWAY!!!!! John, Oh, John! You need to help me! I thought you were with me! I could have sworn you were right next to me.

 

I thought you saved me!

 

Traitor! You promise to save me, you promised.

 

You lied.

 

You fucking lied to me! Now you realize why I don’t have friends! Because friends are not reliable, no. You left me.

 

I trusted you. I believed in you.

 

I needed you.

 

And now the voices are coming back.

 

And none of them are yours.

 

They whisper, John.

 

Terrible things. About me, about you.

 

They said you would never come back.

That you hated me.

That you left me.

That you forgot about me.

And I never believed them.

Until now.

 

Because I don’t know where I am, but I knew you were next to me. But you left me again!

 

I thought you were my friend.

 

I deduced wrong.

 

I am so alone and you owe me an apology.

 

John,

 

Please.

 

Save me from my demons.

 

I am dying without you.

 

 

~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~

 

 

I am so sorry this took so long. (This is half the chapter, but I thought I would post already, so you all know I didn’t just stop. I will be posting within the week) You do not understand how horrid I feel for leaving you all hanging so terribly. With no answers or anything to really guess off of. Life has been hard, and a family crisis has occurred: My Grandmother has passed away unexpectedly and there has been a lot of traveling and mayhem. But I am trying my best and I am so, so sorry. I hope I did this chapter justice. Please tell me what you think? Thanks guys! Things for our favorite men will get much better, very soon. Healing. Hurt/comfort. Trying to return to normal life. And feels, possibly a bromance. Lots of hugs. A few kisses. (No slash, do not worry.) All that wonderful fluff that this story needs! It will all be returning, along with some very cute fluff. :3 But do not think Moriarty was the “major character death.” Because he wasn't, and soon, after some cute fluff, I will break your hearts. And Sherlock's, Literally. Spoilers. ;3

Love you all! Thanks for your support!

~Lizzie who is very sorry for leaving you all hanging for so long…..and who will be posting the next half of this chapter in a few days, please don't kill me.


	26. Doctor visit.

Hello, Lovelies! Lizzie here! Okay…so I am still getting scolded for the OOC chapter…I AM SORRY! I AM BLOODY SORRY. WRITER’S BLOCK. WON’T HAPPEN AGAIN. And just to calm everyone down, I fixed the chapter….no more OOC….Everyone satisfied? No? Okay…Well, thanks to everyone for reviewing! I appreciate it much… And here is the next half. I know I promised you this in a few days but things have been rough… So I hope you enjoy this! And for those of you concerned about who the main character death, You will just have to keep reading…

Enjoy the whumpage, warnings in this chapter for tears, hurt/comfort, and for those who are easily triggered by rape, or….naked bodies…. This chapter is not for you.

And by the way… 69 followers… what, what! Thank you all. ;)

Love you all! ~Lizzie

 

John came in to find the young brunette cupping Sherlock’s face, whispering to him encouraging words as the Doctor finished preparing his tools.

Mycroft beckoned him in and the nurse backed away with a smile, giving them room to settle next to Sherlock on either side. He weakly followed the sound of their movements, searching for something to concentrate on in his drug/fear/alcohol meddled mind.

“The hallucinations are starting to take effect, they must have been administered shortly before we arrived.” John whispered to Mycroft.

“It’s me, Sherlock. John. Remember? Do you know who I am?” John bent down and gently whispered to Sherlock who turned to face him with not a trace of recognition. His mouth opened to speak, only to close and swallow harshly.

John gave Mycroft an encouraging tap on the shoulder, he stepped forward and settled in the chair before stroking his baby’s head.

“Hey, Lock. Can you hear me? It’s Mycroft.” The elder Holmes blinked hard.

There was a hesitant pause before Sherlock’s tender mouth opened again. This time he rasped out a single word, “Myco?”

Mycroft’s face lit up like the sun at the mention of his childhood nickname. He remembered.

“Yes! Yes, it’s Myco.” He let a small chuckle escape and looked at John who smiled proudly.

“Myco….” He repeated, testing out his voice that he hadn’t used for anything but screaming for two years.

“Yes, very good, Sherlock.” Mycroft patted his head gently but quickly stopped when he noticed the relief in his Brother’s face change to mortification, staring straight at the Doctor by his table of tools.

Only God knows what terrifying beast of hell Sherlock saw behind blind eyes but it was enough to make his heart race and his breathing hitch as he cried dry tears.

John recognized the fear, he had had many hallucinations in the past, he knew how real they were and that no convincing in the world could tell him what he was seeing or sometimes hear was fake.

“It’s only a hallucination, Sherlock. Don’t worry, concentrate on me, come on.” John gently cupped his friend’s face and stroked his cheeks as the Doctor dragged the table over, much too loudly for Sherlock’s unused ears.

“Sherlock,” The Doctor whispered, “I am Dr. Tyler, and you are hallucinating right now. None of it is real. Try and concentrate on me.” Dr. Tyler grasped a culture swab and beckoned for John to open Sherlock’s mouth, which he did so with gentle patience, being soft and encouraging as the trembling lips parted completely. His mouth was examined with a small torch, the Doctor being careful to avoid putting unwanted fingers and tools in his mouth until necessary. 

“Okay, now I just have to take a swab of the back of your throat, it will be uncomfortable but you must keep your mouth open.” He grabbed the swab and with the ease of practice, thoroughly rubbed the back of the raw throat with no gagging or protest.

“Excellent, wonderfully done.” John praised the Detective who was now staring, unblinking at an empty corner of the room watching demons dance.

John saw the distant stare in the blind eyes and crouched in front of Sherlock, placing a hand on his cheek only to have him flinch away with a raw growl and curl in on himself in terror.

He remained wrapped in the sheets crying and humming into the linen.

Mycroft sniffed before whispering to Dr. Tyler, “Is there something you can give him so you can continue the examination while he rests?” 

“I would feel more comfortable administering a sedative if I knew what drugs are in his system. I could take some blood and scan it while the forensic comes in. Do you think he can handle that?” John and Mycroft both nodded, the invasive procedure of rape examination would be best done while Sherlock sleeps.

Dr. Tyler nodded before turning to rummage through one of his cabinets for a clean syringe, removing the wrapper and casing he approached the bed with Sherlock still cowering into the thin mattress. The brunette nurse was back, she squeezed in front of John and after many minutes of listening to her soft and female voice, Sherlock peeked out from where his face was buried and listened to her nonsense speech. Mycroft took the opportunity to place a hand on the bony shoulder and slowly ease his hand down to just above the broken wrist where he could keep the arm extended enough for the blood to be drawn. With the distraction of the kind voice and many soft warm hands, Sherlock didn’t feel the antiseptic wipe or the piercing of skin or pulling of blood.

The Doctor left, taking the nurse with him, leaving John and Mycroft to keep Sherlock comfortable and calm. Neither of which were possible. But, they tried.

It had been about ten minutes since Dr. Tyler left and John guessed it would be about the right time to try and explain to Sherlock what was going to happen to him, now that the hallucinations have for the moment subsided.

Sherlock had begun to fall into the pit of exhaustion and he startled himself awake every time his head drooped or his eyes fluttered.

Stay awake. Stay Awake. Stay Awake.

“Sherlock?” John rested a hand gently on the thin shoulder, “The Forensics will be in here soon. They need to take some pictures and then you can go to sleep if you like.” Sherlock did not acknowledge that John had been speaking to him for another two minutes, but when he did turn in the direction he had heard the voice come from he croaked, “Ph-photo hmm-graps?” John smiled.

“Yes, that’s right. Photographs. They need to take some pictures for evidence?” Sherlock stared at a point slightly above his eyes, open mouthed and completely puzzled.

“Edi-hmm..edivence?” He screwed up his eyes and moaned at the mispronounced word.

“Close, Evi-dence.” John spoke slowly, giving him a chance. “Just a few pictures.” John and Mycroft both knew that was a lie.

Sherlock’s eyes widened with a sudden horrible realization, “Will hmm…I-must be-bare?” John winced.

He knew this would be a struggle, that Sherlock would possibly be traumatized after all his abuse and be even worse off now that he would be forced into an awkward situation like this.

“Yes, they need to take pictures of your wounds…” John spoke softly.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, his pale complexion blanching even whiter before twisting into a bright green.

He whispered into the sheets, attempting to disappear amongst the linen and emerge someplace else. Any place else.

“I will hmmm…be-w-will..hmm get trouble.” Sherlock mumbled and hummed.

Mycroft shared a glance with John, who turned back to Sherlock and asked calmly.

“Why will you get in trouble, Sherlock?”

He curled into himself even more, shielding his face for the beating he knew was coming to him.  
If he told, he would be beaten. But what if John got angry at him for not telling, he would be beaten again.

He didn’t want John to be mad at him. He tried to be good.

“I-I sorry…hmm” He sobbed and quaked, his head hanging low.

John winced and blinked back the tears already pushing themselves so quickly out of his eyes.

“You have nothing to be sorry about. You did nothing wrong.” John went to pull Sherlock into an embrace, bought thought better of it and continued talking.   
“You have been very good. You will not get in trouble. Alright? You are safe now.”

He shook his head, “No. Master-will hmmm…get mad. I want to b-be good. I-I so hmmm..sorry.” This time, John reached for the pale figure, wrapping his arms around him and gently pulling him to settle against his chest. Sherlock screamed so loudly Mycroft’s ears rang and John gasped in shock quickly releasing Sherlock who had already delivered a set of weak blows to anything his flailing fist came in contact with.

“I’m sorry!” John whispered, “I am so sorry, relax. Hush, now. It’s okay!” The familiar voice met his ears and with a shuddering breath and realizing that John was with him and he was safe and no one was going to hurt him anymore he outstretched his arms for someone to hold on to.

John filled the void; hugging Sherlock close, gentle but firmly enough so he felt wanted but not threatened.

After some silent moments of steady breathing Sherlock uttered into the jumper, “I just hmm…wa-ant to be hmm… g-good again.

John sighed and swallowed to keep his voice strong. “You are good. You are very good. You are a great man, Sherlock. The greatest I know. And you are safe; Mycroft and I will protect you.” He whispered into Sherlock’s thick hair, gently stoking the nape of his neck, just above the metal collar.

They all sat in silence for several minutes, Sherlock slowly unwinding in John’s arms. The tension in his muscles relaxing and melting into the very warm chest of his best friend who stroked his hair and was beginning to hum a low tune deep in his throat.

A meek voice, so small it could barely be heard uttered, “Will yo-uu hmm…be with me?”

John stopped the involuntary song in his throat to process what he had just heard before slowly pulling away.

“If you want I can stay? Would you like me to stay?” John gently swiped away a stray curl.  
Sherlock nodded and gave a broken smile through his tears before adding, “And Myco hmm….t-too.”

Mycroft placed a warm hand against a cold cheek that leaned into the touch after flinching away.   
“Yes, I’ll stay with you too, Sherlock.” Another forced smile on bloodied lips.

Just then there was a knock at the door before it gently swung open and Anderson stepped in holding a camera in his hands.

“Hello,” He spoke gently at the man buried in the sheets, “I was sent to take pictures for evidence.”

“Anderson? You’re taking the pictures?” John said before remembering and adding, “How is Lestrade?”

“Yes, John. I know it’s not ideal but it’s my job. And Lestrade is in recovery. He is fine.” All three let out an involuntary sigh of relief as Sherlock was still trying to identify the frustratingly familiar voice.

“And Hello, Sherlock. It’s me, Anderson again. I am here to take some pictures, okay?” And then it clicked in Sherlock’s mudded mind and he gasped in shock at the realization before turning to John and gripping him weakly while pleading for help.

“I know it is uncomfortable Sherlock but it needs to be done. Mycroft and I are right here, we are not leaving you.” John gently removed the hands at his arm and began to undo the hospital robe that had been wrapped around the living corpse during John’s absence from the room. Within a few moments after dry tears and pleas for him to stop nearly broke his heart he had removed the robe and just let the sheet drape over Sherlock.

“You can leave the sheet on for now. I will take pictures of his arms and legs first. Then we can remove the bindings.” Anderson stepped closer to the bed and gently began to snap pictures as John carded his fingers through the mass of hair and Mycroft massaged the nearest bony shoulder. With each click of the camera, Sherlock’s body flinched as he remembered the many times Sir took pictures of him. Hundreds and hundreds of pictures. Calling him names as he clicked the camera and pointed it at him from different angles, zooming in and out and cackling as Sherlock cried out his stolen dignity. Most of the times making him pose and he was always, always naked. Sherlock felt his own breathing hitch at the memory and quickly clamped his mouth shut, if he cried and Sir heard him he would get in trouble and he would be beaten. If he didn’t cry he would also get beaten. Sometimes Sir liked hearing him sob and beg sometimes he didn’t and Sherlock could never win. So without knowing what to do Sherlock decided to stop breathing. Then maybe he could pass out and not feel the hits he knew would rain on him any second for him behaving so horribly when he just wanted to behave so he could go home and be safe with John. But suddenly someone was reminding him to breathe, they were rubbing his chest and encouraging him to open his mouth and breath and Sherlock almost fell for the trick. Because every time he opened his mouth something nasty would be put inside and he didn’t want that so he kept his mouth tightly closed until his lungs hurt and the voice telling him to breathe began to go fuzzy. But the pain was threatening to tear his ribcage open, so he sucked in a lungful after lungful of air through clamped teeth and hoped he wouldn’t be whipped.

“Pl-please!” He begged. “I-I hmmm…am sor-ry. No-more Pho-tograps. Hmmmm….Pl-ea-se.” His lungs were pumping harder than ever to accompany for all the lost air and the sudden burst of terror as his limbs began to shake with his breathing.

And just as he was on the verge of a full blown panic attack with nothing but white noise and the phantom voice of his Master calling him from the recesses of his memories the cuffs at his wrists fell away.

He had been wearing those for two years. Not once being removed. And he felt at loss without them, those chains kept him tied to his reality, and now what was he to hold on to.  
A hand.  
There was a hand in his. Why? A slight squeeze.  
Should I squeeze back?  
The Doctor released his hold on the quaking hand, Sherlock had still not acknowledged his comforting presence, if anything he looked even more petrified with his wide, blind eyes staring straight ahead, but his breathing gradually slowed before hitching as the ones at his ankles were undone and pulled away.  
A voice finally pierced the veil of deathly quiet hovering over him, a warm gentle voice that he had heard many times before.  
“That’s it Sherlock, take it easy. Great job, mate! Just relax, I got you.” Two hands set about to rub his throbbing temples and he closed his blind eyes even as the camera began to click at his chest. And a few moments later the sheet shifted lower and the clicks began again and when Sherlock hissed in dis-comfort the gentle reassurances began again. But as the sheet got lower so did Sherlock’s self-control and before he knew it he was trembling again with so much vigor that his teeth chattered and when the sheet was entirely removed he cried out and reached for someone to help him and he found John who shushed him and held him down to the bed with Mycroft’s help as the clicks rapidly bombarded his ears.  
John and Mycroft both felt awful for holding him down as he cried for their comfort, but he was so traumatized that no matter what method they used there would be no way to calm him down and finish the procedure efficiently. So to the best of their ability they encouraged him through the procedure and gently kept him flat on his back and safely secured.   
Anderson’s stomach knotted with sympathy, at times he hated Sherlock. But never did he want to see him like this. Crying weakly and begging for this to stop. And he especially never even considered the idea that he may one day have to see Sherlock naked. Yes, this was a part of his job. Not necessarily a comfortable part and he was used to being patient with the victims but this just felt wrong. And the worst part of this was seeing just how bad the injuries were in the light, how translucent the skin was, how deep the burns, welts and bruises and how thin the frame. Anderson searched for some kind of muscle on the rack of bones but couldn’t see any, not even (even though he didn’t want to look, he was just taking pictures) he couldn’t even find any muscle on the genitalia which looked incredibly de-formed and not at all aesthetic. (Even though it is not a pretty thing to begin with….anyhow….he stopped thinking about it.) And just as he took the final picture of the front of Sherlock John lifted the sheet up to his bone lined chest and gently patted his shoulder.  
“Okay, easy Sherlock. We’re done for now.” Mycroft released his hold on a sinewy arm and soothingly stroked the hiccupping chest while John dabbed the sweaty forehead with the hem of his shirt.   
Anderson took a seat and prepared to wait as long as need be for Sherlock to calm down a bit before they resume. Last thing they need is for him to go into cardiac arrest.  
After another fifteen minutes of comforting and calming the incredibly shaky Sherlock the procedure resumed as he was gently shifted onto his belly and comfortably adjusted on the pillows. After all the crying left him more exhausted then before which seems nearly impossible he barely struggled or paid any mind to the clicking behind him and the lack of sheets as his eyes threatened to close on him. Nev-ertheless, John and Mycroft held him at the shoulders and gently caressed him as his angry red mulched skin smiled for the camera.  
The entire ordeal took forty seven minutes and Dr. Tyler had returned with a syringe full of sedative safe to administer with all the other drugs flowing through his system. And within seconds the Detec-tive slept for the first time in weeks.   
Anderson said his goodbyes and left while John and Mycroft stayed in their hard seats as Dr. Tyler took the samples for the rape kit, changed gloves, placed Sherlock on his back again (with the aid of Mycroft and John), intubated him and informed John and Mycroft of Sherlock’s surgery. Scheduled in ten minutes.  
So they sat in silence, each gently holding a thin hand until Sherlock was wheeled away. And soon both of them missed a hand to hold onto, so scooting a bit closer, they held each other’s.  
A/N: Sorry if I made any mistakes. Please let me know. Hope you like?


	27. Back from the dead

I’m a back! Forgive me for updating like an old turtle but I am starting to…work… (shudder) But here is a late, late Christmas present to all of you! Hope you enjoy and review if you are up to it!? Warnings in this chapter for tears. I promise this is going to get much better …And you all better be ready for hopefully the biggest plot twist of your lives!!!! Not really…But anyway, enjoy!

~Lizzie

26 hours, 49 minutes and 27 seconds. 5 mugs of coffee, 4 trips to the bathroom, 7 anxious calls, 3 mental breakdowns, and 0 hours of sleep.

John was completely and utterly exhausted, his eyes fluttering and fighting the incessant tugging of gravity as he willed himself to stay awake in his hunched position by Mycroft who was doing just as well as he was, possibly worst if that was even a possibility. But all of the weights of exhaustion, anxiety and hunger was wiped out and overpowered by complete worry when the Doctor entered bleary eyed and covered in blood. Both men shot to their feet and crowded the swaying surgeon, begging him with their blood shot eyes for answers.

“Good Morning, Gentleman. I have Great news, good news and bad news and worse news. Which one do you want to hear first?” He gave an encouraging smile that seemed more of a grimace.

“Great news first preferably.” John whispered hoarsely, God knows they needed something positive.

 

The surgeon nodded before removing his glasses, folding them and slowly putting them away, stalling the inevitable much to their distaste.   
Dr. Tyler huffed a sigh and bit his inner check before speaking, “Great news: The surgery was successful,” John let out the breath he hadn’t known he had been holding, “He will need more to help reconstruct the muscles of his back and the rest of him, but his broken bones have been pinned and casted and will hopefully heal. He is stable now, warmed up and receiving a steady flow of oxygen.”

John’s heart was a flutter, the bones were back in place, Sherlock still had a chance to heal. And even if the odds of him running around like the lunatic he is were slim to none, there was a chance. A tiny sliver of hope in the thunderous, never-ceasing whirlwind that they had been caught in. Sherlock was on his way to recovery, a small step. But a step nonetheless. But even if the physical scars and wounds healed and Sherlock would be able to live the rest of his life in relative comfort, there would still be the emotional scars and mental pain that would never cease to torment him in his nightmares and reality.  
John could only hope that he would be enough to fill the void of sorrow and terror in his friend’s soul with hope and peace.

Dr. Tyler’s voice brought him back.

“Good news: His larger scars can be easily corrected with future surgeries so he won’t need to live with that.” 

And that right there. “He won’t need to live with that.” Implied that the Doctor thought he might survive, and even though it could possibly go all wrong from here, that simple reassurance calmed John and Mycroft immensely.

 

“Now, as for the bad news: I am not sure if he will ever walk again. The damage to his ankles is quite severe, and he will most definitely need assistance for the rest of his life. Have you considered a facility to care for him?”   
John audibly gasped at this point as Mycroft shook his head disappointedly.

“No, I will not have him in a strange place with strangers caring for him. Mycroft and I spoke about it, we’ll care for him.” John clenched and unclenched his fists as he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Sherlock alone, abandoned ever again.

Dr. Tyler seemed pleased at his response, “Good, I think that would be most beneficial to him as well. And as for the rest of the bad news, I have yet to receive an answer as to whether or not he is STI free and if his blindness can be repaired. But I will notify you both as soon as the news comes in.”

The wait would be one of the longest of his life. But with Mycroft pulling the strings, they would have the answers shortly and the best Doctors on the job for Sherlock.

John and Mycroft both doted on his every breath, waiting for the next words, because now was the worse news, and what could possibly be worse than the preceded events?

The Doctor looked up at them through his spectacles briefly before letting out a deliberately, agonizingly long breath.

“And the worse news Is a bit hard, especially after all you three have been too. And I want you to have my sincerest apologies.”

Wait a damn second.

Everything was starting to look up, like he would heal, like he may be himself again. 

Like John might have him back. After the Hell he went through only to feel an ounce of relief and now a ton of terror.

“I believe the shock of the surgery was a bit too much for his body to bear. He fell into a coma.”

 

John’s heart stopped. It fell down to his knees before slowly crawling back up, nestling itself back in place and resuming its beating. 

“Oh.” That was all he managed to say. Mycroft remained silent.

“We aren’t sure when, or if he will wake up. But stay positive, he has held on this long. He’s a strong man. He’s in recovery; you may go see him when you are ready.” With a final tight lipped smile the Doctor left them alone.

John’s mind was swirling with thousands of things to say, to scream, to cry to do something.

“Oh.” 

Mycroft nodded, understanding the underlying meaning behind the single syllable. 

“Indeed, “The elder Holmes whispered.  
John sat in the nearest hard plastic chair and sank deeply. Not ready to face his friend yet. 

“Mycroft?” John’s voice cracked and he deliberately swallowed hard. Mycroft regarded him with an elegant brow.

“What if he doesn’t wake up? What if we went through all this, he survived, Moriarty is finally gone and he dies because of Shock!” John spit the last word with disdain. 

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted.   
“This is so unfair! I lose him twice and now I may not even get him back because of shock! Not from jumping off a goddamn building. Shock. Sherlock Holmes in SHOCK.” John stood abruptly and breathed even breaths, too even. Then he laughed. A laugh that sounded more like a manic cackle, Mycroft regarded him carefully, not daring to speak. And just as suddenly as the laugher began it stopped and was replaced by silent tears.

“He’s my best friend, he can’t leave me. I would die without him. I can’t-he musn’t-I just- GOD WHY DO I HAVE TO LOVE HIM SO MUCH!!!”

And with that final truth revealed John’s heart broke as it realized just how much that skinny annoying bloke meant to him. He was more than a friend. He was-is his brother, his soulmate.

Mycroft stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do. This goldfish just admitted he loved his little brother. 

When John’s crying became audible, Mycroft approached him gently and placed a light hand on his shoulder.

“There, there, John. He will pull through. Give him some credit. We both know he has cheated death before.” The supposed to be encouraging words did nothing for the good Doctor. “And if he doesn’t pull through soon, we both know the best option-“

That got his attention. John bolted straight up and glared at Mycroft with red-rimmed eyes.

“You can’t be considering-“John began and sniffed.

“Oh, I am.” Mycroft answered coolly, not a hint of emotion in his face.

“But what you said in the corridor! What we have gone through over the past two years! And now you’re going to give up on him just as he has begun again!” John practically screamed.

“Listen to me. John. You are speaking as if you are the only one who has lost him. I lost him too. Far before all of this. I lost him the days Father beat him senseless. I lost him the days that Mother neglected him. I lost him all those years ago. My baby brother died as a child. That man is not my brother. He is his ghost. And I wish I could have my brother back but I can’t! I never can and I never will! And I wish every day that I would have done something, but I didn’t, I didn’t know how severe he was suffering! I DID NOT KNOW!” He roared with an unhinged self-hatred that John has never seen in anyone ever before. And after silent moments of watching each other, the Elder Holmes averted his gaze and whispered.

“I didn’t know. Until it was too late. My Brother is gone. And I will do what is best for him now. If he doesn’t pull through I will have it arranged so that he won’t. Because John- he’s back from the dead, but not alive. Not even close.” And with that Mycroft turned and left boots clicking along the dark corridor. Leaving John to pace with fingers yanking at his hair praying to someone, anyone who would listen.

Bring him back.

A/N: Next chapter up soon. If anyone is still reading this… XD

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you think! I would love reviews and critiques!


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